ARKANSAS COUPLE DIES AFTER EATING OYSTERS

 

PORT ORANGE, FL – An elderly couple visiting Florida died today after eating oysters.  Wilston Hickey, age 86, and his wife, Peggy-Sue, age unknown, of Chlamydia, AK, had just finished eating a lunch of fresh oysters at a popular Port Orange restaurant when crossing U.S. Highway 1 on the way back to their travel trailer.  Struck by a southbound 18-wheeler heading to Palm Beach to deliver a load of My Pillows, the crushed remains of the Hickeys tied up traffic on Highway 1 for a couple of hours.  Florida State Police are investigating the accident but did not indicate whether any charges are pending against the truck driver.  A spokesperson for The Florida Department of Fish and Wildlife said that although they are sending condolences to the Hickey family, Florida oysters are generally safe to eat, and are especially good with lime juice or salsa sauce. Governor DeSantis, taking a five-minute break from his 2022 gubernatorial and 2024 presidential campaigns, said that his staff will attempt to confirm whether the truck driver was either a Democrat or gay.

Note:  This entry was added by the Executor of Mr. Hickey's estate which will sue the My Pillow company and the Port Orange Restaurant.  It is copied, with permission, from the Port Orange Neighbor.

Shark Tank Millionaire Funds New Condom

 

Saturday, June 28, 2014

Shark Tank Millionaire Funds New Condom

Inventor Wilston Hickey

NEW YORK - Shark Tank millionaire Robert Herjavec fought off two other Shark Tank members to win the right to invest in "Dip  Your Wick", at an episode to be aired during September 2014.    Inventor Wilston Hickey, a 77-year-old college dropout, originally from Troy, New York, received $169,000 in funding a 10% interest in his company, Dip Your Wick, LLC,  a North Dakota limited liability company.

Mr. Hickey said that he was inspired to invent Dip Your Wick when browsing at a Home Depot store in Fargo, where he presently resides.  He noticed the plastic tool coatings in the paint department, which enable tools to be coated with a rubber or plastic coating.  Hickey bought a can of Plasti Dip to coat the rusting handles of his pliers, but when doing so he accidentally spilled some on his most private part, which quickly coated it.

"It was like a gift from Allah", Hickey told the Shark Tank members.  "This is way easier than wrestling with a Trojan if you haven't had Daily Cialis".  After trying different combinations of products and application methods, he finally developed Dip Your Wick in both an aerosol spray-on product and a traditional can to which a male penis can be quickly dipped prior to lovemaking.

Barbara Cochran

Hickey has applied for a utility patent, and the application is pending.  Because of the unusual sensitivity of the product, the Shark Tank members (other than Barbara Cochran) went to a screened-in area to try out a sample and were duly impressed with the ease of use.  During the negotiations with Mr. Hickey, Barbara quickly announced  "I'm out", but some of the other four investors made various offers and commented favorably about the product.

Robert Herjavec

Damon John

Asked what the funding will be used for, Hickey said that he will use it to experiment with expanding the line to offer various colors and flavors, "just like Trojan," and for some advertising in Hustler,  Ebony,  and Cosmos magazines.   At the present time, Dip Your Wick is available only in jet black and linen colors.  Damon John, who tried the linen sample, was very impressed, although he believed that the off-white color made his penis look small.  At the same time, Robert Herjavec said that he was excited after trying the jet black sample.  "I feel like a real African American stud", Herjavec said.  Damon John offered the $169,000 but demanded a 51% equity interest in the company.  Mark Cuban just laughed but said that he doubted whether his team members would use the product, and therefore he was out.  Billionaire Kevin O'Leary offered Hickey the requested $169,000, but in turn wanted a $1.00 per unit royalty in perpetuity, an offer that was rejected on Barbara's advice.

Advertising for Dip Your Wick will appear in print and online ads starting in October and may be demonstrated on QVC.

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My Shark Tank Experience

 NEW YORK – Shark Tank Members Join in Unusual Funding.  In an episode to be aired Sunday evening, April 26th, (ABC, 9:00 PM EDT – check local listing), the five regular cast members of Shark Tank fought each other to fund one of the most unusual start-up companies, Mothers’ Milk, LLC©.  Entrepreneur Wilston Hickey of Chlamydia, Arkansas, asked for $250,000 for a 10% stake in his venture.  His company, which employs approximately three hundred wet nurses that supply genuine mothers' milk to mothers throughout the United States.  

Suzzi Hickey

At first, appearing incredulous when hearing Hickey’s pitch, the entire cast soon realized that he was presenting an unusual investment opportunity.  Hickey explained that he started his business when his teenage daughter, Suzzi, was offered a job as a wet nurse by a local Republican congresswoman who didn’t have time to nurse her own baby.  Suzzi had stopped nursing her child, Washington Hickey, after he started kindergarten, but the milk kept coming and the wet nurse job paid well.  Suzzie mentioned that many of her friends had excess milk, and some had sold some on Craigslist.  After putting an ad on Facebook, Hickey was swamped with offers to both sell and buy real mothers' milk.  He quickly realized that the sale of mothers milk, properly marketed, could supplement his meager income as a roadkill chef in a local restaurant.

Suzzi passed out samples to the Sharks, but only Keven O’Leary tasted the sample and said that it compared very favorably for some mothers milk that he had drunk a couple of months prior to the taping of the show.  

Asked about the economics, Hickey said that he pays his “herd” $1.15 per pint, and sells it locally for $4.50 if picked up at his storefront “dairy”, but $15.00 online, including overnight UPS.  He is hoping to get into Whole Foods and possibly Krogers in the near future.  

While impressed with the margins, Robert Herjavec said it would not fit into his investment portfolio and declined, as did Mark Cuban who did not see a sports-related market for the product.

Daymond John showed an interest, particularly since many of her herd were probably minority women, considering that the company is based in Arkansas.  He declined to invest, however, saying that it would be a conflict with his investment in “Bovine Mama”, which offered a similar product in the mid-Atlantic states.

O’Leary declined to invest because he didn’t think it had licensing possibilities, but Shark Barbara Cocoran jumped in and made the investment, stating that it would fit in nicely with her other food product investments.

About our 55th Reunion (2010) From Facebook

Wilston Hickey Sheila and classmates - Sorry I can't make it to the reunion, but my parole officer said no as she knows I would get into trouble where there are broads and booze. On the brighter side, if I don't f___ up again, I'll definitely be there for the 60th reunion. Post photos for me and give Kaye Ryan a big hug for me.

October 8 at 5:03pm · Comment ·

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    Marie Carpenter We'll look forward to seeing you at the 60th..A good time was had by all.
    

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    Wilston Hickey
    

    Thanks, Marie. I am really looking forward to coming. Will there be any pictures put up on this internet thing? I really would like to see a current photo of Mary Ann Merry, who I always thought was a hot chick, although she never paid me no mind.

Summer 1995 Letter to Classmates

 The Bathhouse at Fishman’s Wharf

San Francisco, CA 94313

 

Summer, 1995

 

 

Dear Classmates

 

My naval career went to hell, or more literally, to Davy Jones' locker, as we used to say in the Navy.  While I was the officer in command of the Land o Lakes Naval Research Station, I came up with an idea for a stealth aircraft carrier to base the Navy version of the stealth fighter aircraft.  We had billions for research at Land o Lakes, and we pumped most of it into "Project Columbia" during my watch.  (I called the project "Columbia" both out of fond memories for my high school, and also because the carrier, named "Columbia",  was to be the gem of the ocean.)  Four years and $55,000,000 later, the Columbia steamed out of drydock in Terhensha, Wisconsin, down the Kraft River into the Great Lakes, through the St. Lawrence River, and the Bay of Fundy into the Atlantic Ocean on a shakedown cruise with 6 pre-production versions of the F-55 Stealth Fighter (top secret successor to the F-35)  aircraft aboard.  It was a top-secret operation, but hardly anyone saw us go because it is so hard to notice a Stealth anything.  Anyway, when we were in Canadian waters about 53 nautical miles off the coast of Newfoundland, being escorted by a Canadian Frigate, the HMS Meech Lake, out of Quebec, when we launched the 6 F-55 aircraft to test the whole weapons system out.  The crew of the Meech Lake didn't know we were there, incidentally, because we were a Stealth ship, and they couldn't see us or pick us up on their radar.  Anyway, we launched the aircraft, and that went o.k., but the trouble began when we tried to land them back on the deck of the Columbia.  At that point, we realized the fallacy of the whole concept.  The aircraft couldn't find the carrier.  The pilots couldn't see it because it is so well camouflaged, and they couldn't pick it up on their radar, because anything Stealth is invisible to radar.  Likewise, the carrier couldn't find the Stealth aircraft.  The good news was that the F-55's giving up looking for the carrier and safely landed at the Montreal Internal Airport (where they weren't noticed because they are Stealth).  The bad news was that the Columbia was accidentally rammed by the Meech Lake, which couldn't see it because it was Stealth.  Both ships went down with most, but not all hands.  The U.S. government never publicly said anything about the loss of the Columbia because it was so top secret, but the Canadians said plenty about Meech Lake going down.  They didn't know who was at fault, and I think that they officially blamed a fishing boat from Labrador or Newfoundland.  Please don't mention this to anyone, because it is still highly classified.  Anyway, my boss, Admiral "Bull" Halsey, said some very unkind things to me, like that I was a F**k Up and probably couldn't get sex in a whorehouse. There was a Board of Inquiry, which concluded that the whole thing was a "hair-brained scheme", and recommended that I retire, which I did, with my rank of Captain and my pension intact.  I am writing a book on my naval career, and I plan to send the manuscript to Dave McCullough at Book of the Month Club if I can come up with a catchy title.      

 

After leaving the Navy, I moved back to San Francisco, a city that I grew to love during my college days at UCLA (Los Gatos Campus).  I decided to start an entirely new career and opened a lollypop factory and store, called "Hickey's Suckers".  If any of you come to San Francisco, please come by the store to see me.  It is in the tourist area, in the mall at the old Fisherman's Wharf bathhouse. It is sort of a childhood dream come true; not much money, but a lot of enjoyment. (Fulfillment is probably a better word.)

 

On the home front, things didn't go well.  My second wife, Peggy-Marge, became hooked on aerobics and physical fitness.  She spent hours and hours at it every day.  Soon she became lanky and flat-chested, her hooters having all but disappeared.  Her hair lost its curl and her face became drawn, her complexion sallow.  She was always humming the damned background music from the Jane Fonda workout tape, which half drove me crazy, and in the middle of the Columbia mess, she just left and went to open an aerobics studio in Hanoi.  I loved Peggy-Marge once, but as far as I am concerned, she can stay there with the damned commies!  (I apologize for this outburst.  I am not antiwomen, but I just can't take broads that get too muscular and are always sweaty, and then just pick up and trot off to Asia without even a by-your-leave.  I hope it never happens to you.) 

 

On a brighter note, I want to share with you that I have come out of the closet and found (or more precisely, admitted) my true sexual orientation.  I know that this will come as a startling revelation to many of you, particularly the girls I dated from the Manor, and those fellow members of the J.V. basketball team. I can understand and appreciate your disbelief.  "Not Wilston Hickey!" you are probably saying to yourselves.  I know that some of you girls in high school thought that I was a real stud.  Actually, I tried to be, but I always had these peculiar feelings about the guys on the team.  Nothing ever happened then, but I used to spend a

lot of time watching the soapy bubbles travel down the glistening bodies of my teammates during the post-game showers and thinking strange and disturbing thoughts.  [Parenthetically, my psychiatrist thinks that my feelings about Peggy-Marge may be tied into this whole thing I had about the guys on the team and the coach.] I know that this news may cause some of you girls that I dated to have eerie (or is it Erie) feelings, but in looking back I know that I really did enjoy necking and groping around with some of you girls at the Auto-Vision. (Who knows, I might enjoy it again!  Is the Auto-Vision still there?)  With the name "Hickey", I felt a certain obligation to leave my mark on my dates.  I remember bringing one of you home after a drive-in date.  (I won't embarrass her by giving her name, but she was a dark-haired girl of German extraction, from the Manor).  Her mother took one look at her neck and sarcastically asked if she had been attacked by the Auto Vac down at Hoffman's Car Wash.  She wouldn't go out

with me anymore.  Ah, we were young and tender then.  Now, 35 years later, there probably isn't one of you who would get a spot that would show through your pancake makeup if you spent 30 minutes hooked up to an industrial-grade Hoover!

 

I wish I were able to be with you, but I definitely will come to the 40th reunion. 

Enclosed is a fairly recent picture taken at a party given by my sweet friend, Clive.

 

Yours, always

 

 

Wilston Hickey

(Captain, USN, Ret.)

 

40th Class Reunion Letter (1995)

Wilston Hickey

c/o Los Angeles County Jury Board

P.O. Box 5591

Los Angeles, California 91773

06 July 1995

Dear Class of '55 Classmates,

Sometimes I think that the biggest mistake I ever made (other than telling
Coach Spaulding where to stick a baseball bat) was getting on the O.J. Jury. We
have been sequestered (fancy lawyer-talk for jailed) for months now, and the
damn trial is due to go on for weeks more. At first, I thought that it would be a
great adventure to be on the jury for the trial of the century, but it really isn’t
much fun, particularly in the middle of the summer when you are Juror No. 3,
and Juror No. 2 hasn’t seen the Arrid XXX Dry commercial, and Juror No. 4 has
gas. I am sick of Marsha Clark and her Dullsville hairdos, and equally sick of that
uppity Johnie Cochran. Who cares if O.J. can get a glove on, or whether some
dog was barking at 10:00 pm. or 20 minutes later? We all know that he whacked
Nicole and Ron, but we long ago decided to be a “hung jury”. That way no one
will be really pissed at us, and we will all have a chance to make a few bucks
selling our stories to TV and the tabloids. Also, I like to be thought of as hung.
One of our guards told me that the scouts for the Letterman show have been
hanging around. But it really does drive me wacky listening to the same crap
over and over again, and then being fed bland food and having our telephones
monitored and our TV censored. I swear, the only thing that keeps me on the
jury are the winks and come-hither smiles from Judge Ito!

So much about my current life. My friend, Clive, and I parted a couple of
years ago. Clive thought he wanted a career change and went to school to learn
to be an electrician, but he didn’t do well because he couldn’t figure out the
difference between AC and DC. I am thinking of getting back with Peggy Marge,
who was a lovely but deceitful woman. She manages a Hooters in the south. [I
think there is some poetry there].

That reminds me, I ran into Sue Donkin a while back when I was still
living in San Francisco. Her name is now Sue St. John. Her telephone number is
408 899-9906. She said that she lost track of everyone and would love to hear
from her classmates.

Well, I’m really sorry that I had to miss another reunion, but I’m sure we’ll
meet again.

Best Wishes,

Wilston Hickey

35th Class Reunion Letter (1990)

HlCKEY'S SUCKERS
San Francisco Type Candy
The Bathhouse Mall at Fisherman's Wharf
San Francisco, California

Summer, 1990

Dear Classmates:

Another five years gone by! I just re-read my letter in the yearbook from our
30th reunion, and there has been a lot of changes and turmoil in the Hickey
household since then, mostly for the worse, but some for the better, as you shall
see.

My naval career went to hell, or more literally, to Davy Jones' locker, as we
used to say in the Navy. While I was the officer in command of the Land 0 Lakes
Naval Research Station, I came up with an idea for a stealth aircraft carrier to base
the Navy version of the stealth fighter aircraft. We had billions for research at
Land 0 Lakes and we pumped most of it into "Project Columbia" during my watch.
(I called the project "Columbia" both out of fond memories for my school, and also
because the carrier, named "Columbia", was to be the gem of the ocean.) Four
years and $55,000,000,000 later, the Columbia steamed out of the dry dock in
Terhensha, Wisconsin, down the Kraft River into the Great Lakes, through the St.
Lawrence River, and the Bay of Fundy into the Atlantic Ocean on a shakedown
cruise with 6 pre-production versions of the F-55 Stealth Fighter aircraft aboard.
It was a top-secret operation, but hardly anyone saw us go because it is so hard to
notice a Stealth anything. Anyway, when we were in Canadian waters about 52
nautical miles off the coast of Newfoundland, being escorted by a Canadian
Frigate, the HMS Meech Lake, out of Quebec, when we launched the six F-55
aircraft to test the whole weapons system out. The crew of the Meech Lake didn't
know we were there, incidentally, because we were a Stealth ship, and they couldn't
see us or pick us up on their radar. Anyway, we launched the aircraft and that
went o.k., but the trouble began when we tried to land them back on the deck of
the Columbia. At that point, we realized the fallacy of the whole concept. The
aircraft couldn't find the carrier. The pilots couldn't see it because it is so well
camouflaged, and they couldn't pick it up on their radar, because anything Stealth
is invisible to radar. Likewise, the carrier couldn't find the Stealth aircraft. The
good news was that the F-55's gave up looking for the carrier and safely landed
at the Montreal Internal Airport (where they weren't noticed because they are
Stealth). The bad news was that the Columbia was accidentally rammed by the
Meech Lake, which couldn't see it because it was Stealth. Both ships went down \
with all hands. The U.S. government never publicly said anything about the loss
of the Columbia because it was so top secret, but the Canadians said plenty about
Meech Lake going down. They didn't know who was at fault, and I think that they
officially I blamed a fishing boat from Labrador or Newfoundland. Please don't
mention this to anyone, because it is still highly classified. Anyway, my boss,
Admiral "Bull" Halsey, said some very unkind things to me, like that I was an F_
Up and probably couldn't get sex in a whorehouse. [See below] There was a Board
of Inquiry, which concluded that the whole thing was a "hair-brained scheme", and
. recommended that I retire, which I did, with my rank of Captain and my pension
intact. I am writing a book on my naval career, and I plan to send the manuscript
to Dave McCullough at Book-of-the-Month Club if I can come up with a catchy
title.

After leaving the Navy, I moved back to San Francisco, a city which I grew to
love during my college days at UCLA (Los Gatos Campus). I decided to start an
entirely new career, and opened a lollypop factory and store, called "Hickey's
Suckers". If any of you come to San Francisco, please come by the store to see
me. It is in the tourist area, in the mall at the old Fisherman's Wharf bathhouse.
It is sort of a childhood dream come true; not much money, but a lot of enjoyment.
(Fulfillment is probably a better word.)

On the home front, things didn't go well. My second wife, Peggy-Marge,
became hooked on aerobics and physical fitness. She spent hours and hours at it
every day. Soon she became lanky and flat-chested, her hooters having all but
disappeared. Her hair lost its curl and her face became drawn, her complexion
sallow. She was always humming the damned background music from the Jane
Fonda workout tape, which half drove me crazy, and in the middle of the Columbia
mess, she just left and went to open an aerobics studio in Hanoi. I loved PeggyMarge
once, but as far as I am concerned, she can stay there with the damned
commies! (I apologize for this outburst. I am not anti-women, but I just can't take
broads that get too muscular and are always sweaty, and then just pick up and trot
off to Asia without even a by-your-leave. I hope it never happens to you.)

On a brighter note, I want to share with you that I have come out of the closet
and found (or more precisely, admitted) my true sexual orientation. I know that
this will come as a startling revelation to many of you, particularly the girls I dated
from the Manor, and those fellow members of the J.V. basketball team. I can
understand and appreciate your disbelief. "Not Wilston Hickeyl" you are probably
saying to yourselves. I know that some of you girls in high school thought that I
was a real stud. Actually, I tried to be, but I always had these peculiar feelings
about the guys on the team. Nothing ever happened then, but I used to spend a lot
of time watching the soapy bubbles travel down the glistening bodies of my
teammates during the post-game showers, and thinking strange and disturbing
thoughts. [Parenthetically, my psychiatrist thinks that my feelings about PeggyMarge
may be tied into this whole thing I had about the guys on the team - and the
coach.] I know that this news may cause some of you girls that I dated to have
eerie (or is it Erie) feelings, but in looking back I know that I really did enjoy
necking and groping around with some of you girls at the Auto-Vision. (Who
knows, I might enjoy it again.   Is the Auto-Vision still there?) With the name
"Hickey", I felt a certain obligation to leave my mark on my dates. I remember
bringing one of you home after a drive-in date. (I won't embarrass her by giving
her name, but she was a dark-haired girl of German extraction from the Manor).
Her mother took one look at her neck and sarcastically asked if she had been
attacked by the Auto Vac down at Hoffman's Car Wash. She wouldn't go out
with me anymore. Ah, we were young and tender then. Now, 35 years later,
there probably isn't one of you who would get a spot that would show through
your pancake makeup if you spent 30 minutes hooked up to an industrial-grade
Hoover.

I wish I were able to be with you, but I definitely will come to the 40th reunion.
Enclosed is a fairly recent picture taken at a party given by my sweet friend, Clive.

Yours, always

Wilston Hickey
(Captain, USN, Ret.)