Ricky is Sunnyvale’s dumbest resident. Like many in the park, he’s had a hard life – his mother Tammy left him and his dad Ray when Ricky was a kid, and his lack of book learning skills prevented him from getting on in life. He only learned to read by deciphering labels on frozen food packets.
Ricky’s best friend is Julian, who has helped him through his roughest times. Once, when the pair had been released from jail and Ricky had nowhere to go, Julian allowed him to sleep in his grandmother’s old car, the Shitmobile. It was only supposed to be for two days, but Ricky ended up making the old New Yorker his permanent home. Ricky fucking loves living in that car. As long as he has a blanket, liquor and dope, and a toaster oven full of chicken fingers (the $8 good kind) Ricky is happy as fuck.
But Ricky never stays happy for long. His explosive temper gets him into trouble with everyone, from Jim Lahey, cops and lawyer dicks, to hospital receptionists, doctors and librarians… in fact anyone in a position of authority. They can all catch a train to Fuckoffity Land. And don’t ever, ever compare him to bouffant-haired hypnotist Reveen the Impossibilist. REVEEEEEN!
Ricky’s tried to hold down a few normal people jobs, including mall cop, janitor, and assistant trailer park supervisor. He even got a job as a florist but was laid off before he even started, after throwing flowers at two dumb-as-fuck cops. But there is one field where Ricky excels – horbiculture. Ricky may be dumber than a turnip, but he grows the best fucking weed in Nova Scotia, maybe in the whole of North Amernica, as Ricky calls it. Wild rocker and train enthusiast Sebastian Bach loved Ricky’s product so much he bought his entire crop, and Ricky, Julian and Bubbles smuggled the dope via model train across the Canadian-US border.
Ricky may appear dumber than a turnip, but he grows the best fucking weed in Nova Scotia!
Ricky once grew four huge fields full of prime dope (helped, according to Bubbles, by the planet Mars puling the cocksuckers out of the ground.) Ricky was set to become rich, but three fields got busted by the fucking cops, and Cory and Trevor lost the rest of the dope money to Barb. Fucking dicks!
Ricky knows how to handle dumb cops though, and can smooth-talk his way out of a tricky situation using his impressive “Do you know Jim?” trick. Basically it’s peach and cake.
Apart from dope, pepperoni, and free smokes, the loves of Ricky’s life are his on-off-on-off-again girlfriend, Lucy, his beloved daughter, Trinity, and his awesome new gramson, Mo. Mo was supposed to be called Ray after Ricky’s dad (who, far from being dead, is alive and well and living in a dump in Florida.) But Mo’s fuckgoof of a father, Jacob, wrote his address in the wrong part of the birth certificate, and officially named his son The Motel. Ricky was smart enough to forgive Jacob, as that’s what being a good gramdad is all about. Now smokes, let’s go.