Let’s F*ck With People Today

Dear Wicked Improper Reader,

For the past few days, I have been receiving unsolicited emails from people in the Dallas area about some awful Realtor convention they believe I attended. I can assure you that I did not attend this event, as, a.) I am not a realtor, and b.) I have never even been to Dallas. What I do know is they have obtained my email address and now they must live with the consequences. I hope you enjoy this as much as I did because I plan to continue fucking with them until one or more of us dies.

Martin

From “Jeanne” (email address withheld)

Hey
Here’s one of my pics…send me yours.. Ill be in office around noonish..stop in if you are back in town..k?

 

I have no idea which one Jeanne is or why her face is blurred out. Or, maybe Jeannie is the brother?  Anyway, here is the reply from Martin.

Hey Jeanne,

Great picture! Really shows how everyone is genuinely enthused to be there.

Did I get a chance to tell you what happened when I was preparing to check out? Well, security at the Omni-Dallas came to my room that morning with questions and played back some surveillance footage. As you can see in the first image, that’s me carrying a woman I met in the lobby bar. NOTHING happened. She couldn’t remember what room she was in, so I had to take her key and slide it into about 700 doors before it finally opened one. Then, as you can see in the second image, she clearly has some inner demons that she is dealing with. It looks like she was rooming with a poltergeist! Security wanted to know why I was carrying a woman through their hotel, and what, if anything, did I have to do with the trashing of her room. Unbelievable! You try to help one person and the next thing you know you’re answering questions about a possible assault and damages. Speaking of questions, would it be okay if I gave them your number? They said they may want to follow up with a few people who know me who can answer questions about my character. Sorry to get you involved with this. What can you do about that situation other than “lol”?

Absolutely, I’d love to stop back in next time I’m in town!

Have a wonderful Monday!

Martin

Spoiler Alert: Greg Raymer Was Soliciting Hookers

"Hello Vegas Buffets, Goodbye High Cheek Bones"

 

Boston, MA – Jesus. There was Greg Raymer, just minding his own business, cruising Craigslist for a little side Poontanna, when all of a sudden North Carolina’s Finest arrest him for trying to get his dick wet in exchange for money. For those not aware, let me try to paint a broader picture of the world going on around us: We have Mexicans being catapulted over our borders. We have radical Muslims tunneling in under the Atlantic Ocean from England. We JUST got through an absolutely BRUTAL recession where, quite frankly, I didn’t know if I’d get my hands on some 100% all natural Agave Nectar ever again, and THIS is what our law enforcement is focusing their efforts on? They’re running sting operations, to the tune of hundreds of thousands of dollars in equipment and surveillance hours, all because there are a few guys out there that want to pay someone to help them launch cum. Are you fucking kidding me? This is Greg Raymer. You may have heard of him, he won a little card game out in Vegas called “The World Series of Poker.” Now, why he has to pay someone to blow him, or let him pull up his disgusting belly fat to put his little redheaded dink into them is beyond me. He’s famous. Yes, he is very difficult to look at, and I would imagine a love making session with him would end with both parties being completely saturated. But, famous is famous, and all you have to do if someone doesn’t recognize you, especially in this day in age, is say “Just Google me with your iPhone, I’ll be in the Men’s room with my dick out.” I’m pretty sure that’s how Dan Marino and Rick Pitino got women pregnant within 5 minutes of meeting them. As for Greg “Fossil Man” Raymer, women may very well be asking “Why Greg?” Well, just take a peek at his other half (and I mean that in the literal, voluminous sense) and you tell me where you’d even start. Who knows, maybe the dirt road is open for business and that’s enough for some of you. As a precautionary measure for those who plan to go down that very smelly path, be advised this one looks like a total BYOC (Crisco.)

 

 

"Thoughts and prayers go out to many hotel beds"

 

Nigella Lawson. Wouldya?

"You looked right at them"

 Boston, MA – Hallo, Gov’nah! Anyone else going to watch “The Taste”, premiering tonight at 9 on ABC? No, you neither? Well, there could very well be two reasons to tune in (see above.) Me and my dick, sorry, “my dick and I” (there, are you happy) first discovered Nigella on the Food Network a couple of years ago, and it has been slowly massaging balls to her soothing English accent and preposterous cleavage ever since. They are big. That’s all I know. I should point out that I also like flat girls, but, you know, not like that. We could just be friends, only. So, the question remains, “wouldya?” Now, per usual, I’ll go ahead and start us off and let you know how I voted….drumroll….I would. Yep, I know, shocker. But whether she’s making a raspberry tart, or holding up beaters while I play a depth perception game from my couch so it looks like she’s licking chocolate grenache from my helmet, I will admit that I’m smitten. So, all kidding aside, I will be DVR’ing “The Taste” and fast forwarding to the parts where Nigella has to show cleavage because it’s natural, and also because it’s in the contract. Please cast your vote below, but have some respect for others’ feelings as you decide whether or not you would penetrate Nigella. Bon appetit! 

 

Wouldya?

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It’s Fun To Tweet When You’re Ravaged With The Flu

Boston, MA – Yay! Mrs. Munson gave me the Flu! She won’t admit it, but there’s no other way around it: She caught the Flu, then hacked and wheezed all over the god damn joint, probably including on my iPad2. Then she had the gall to say “Maybe we shouldn’t kiss goodnight because I don’t want to give you the Flu.” Oh really? Well, it’s a little bit late for that, Sweet Tits. Her germs must have been making love all over the house because her bacteria is everywhere. I’m surprised the bathroom doesn’t have stalagmites made out of her mucus. Needless to say, it hasn’t really been a hotbed of romance around the Munson household. Under normal circumstances, I’d be slightly embarrassed to get caught masturbating, but she walked in and found me putting lotion all over my crank in that fun way that makes it tickle, and I said honestly “I’m only doing this because I thought it would help with my fever!”

Anyway, I spent my New Year’s Eve sampling her cough syrup with codeine and being disappointed at Fergie’s lack of cleavage. Here are just a few samples of those tweets. Look what you have or have not been missing out on! Follow us here @wickedimproper

 

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Twas The Night Before Christmas (continued)

"I...HAVE...TO...GO...TO....1...BILLION.....HOUSES..TONIGHT...RAHHHH!"

 

Boston, MA – Due to underwhelming demand, we are hesitantly continuing our not so popular “Twas The Night Before Christmas” poem which we aptly blogged the night before Christmas. You really should read that part HERE first, otherwise, you run the risk of getting lost in one of the world’s most complex poems.

 

‘Twas The Night Before Christmas (Part II. Part 2?)

‘Twas the Night before Christmas,

and all through the halls,

there roamed angry Martin,

with tightly wound balls.

Martin called them his “hairy muchachos”,

and more often than not, they smelled of stale nachos.

When up on the roof there arose such a clatter,

that Martin sent Mrs. Munson to see what was the matter.

On the roof she saw Santa, and what did she hear?

Santa screaming at those flying donkeys that he called reindeer.

“On Lindsay, on Suri, on Kingston, on Paris!

On Seacrest, on Tori and Dean Spelling, on Adolf, on Anna Faris!”

And off they went, into the mist,

so Martin thought Mrs. M might like to be kissed,

as they moved closer, his pajama serpent raged,

unlocking itself from the peephole, where it was previously caged,

the helmet had turned purple, with obviously delight,

Mrs. Munson ruined the moment, by mentioning frostbite,

Off she went, back down the latter,

while Martin spackled the chimney, with his own special batter.

While Santa went around the world getting paid,

Martin spent another Christmas, not getting laid.

The End (for realz)

Twas the Night Before Christmas…

 

“Twas The Night Before Christmas, by Martin Munson”

‘Twas the night before Christmas,

and all through the house,

the only creature to be stirring,

was Martin’s trouser mouse.

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,

big fucking deal we pressed in some thumbtacks, one here and one there.

Martin had assembled the characters, in their decorative manger,

so it appeared baby Jesus, was being touched by a stranger.

He had put two Elves, high up on the tree,

in a 69 position, like two gayers on “Glee.”

When through the door came Mrs. Munson, with a look of displeasure,

saying “No” to sex, three times for good measure.

Martin began, chasing her down halls,

with the plan obviously being, to empty his balls.

“Come back here!” he said, as he dodged thrown ice cubes,

he wanted to show her, the mistletoe shaved into his pubes.

Behind the door she went, and click went the lock,

once again Martin was left standing, with his hands on his cock.

The End?

 

Happy Holidays,

Martin

Guess Which One I Like

Boston, MA – Well, another Winter, another “lost invitation” to the 25th Ebony Winter Gala hosted by the National Association of Black Accountants Inc., Boston Metropolitan Chapter, in association with the United Minority Professionals. However, nothing can stop me from viewing their online photo gallery on Boston.com. I just clicked through all 1,200 pictures while getting paid at my job when what to my wondering eyes should appear, two ebony milk cannons I would like to hold very near.

From left to right below are: Carol East Jose, Mildred Lee, Mirna Shampemba, and Carolyn Jose. With all due respect to these ladies, who are each beautiful in their own very special way, I am going to give my honest assessment starting with Carol East Jose. Carol, that is a beautiful dress, and your sparkling eyes and smile are literally lighting up the room to the point where I just told Siri to remind me to buy Crest White Strips. Mildred, you also have a wonderful smile and, might I mention, a rack that is almost making it impossible for the other two to remain in the picture frame. Speaking of racks, sound the “Boing alarm!” (woop! woop! woop!) because oh my god Mirna those are preposterous! I don’t know how you can leave the house like that without making out with yourself while pressing those boobers up against a full length mirror. God damn, baby. Finally, we have Carolyn who looks classy in her Vera Wang gown, and, if I may, she kind of reminds me of retired Victoria’s Secret Model, Frederique, if Frederique was a successful Black Accountant. Let me be honest with you, there isn’t a woman pictured below that I wouldn’t let balance a two digit budget by using the Abacus dangling in my pants, but I do have a favorite so I am casting my vote for the very fun to hang out with Mirna.

 

Pick your favorite/hot Black Accountant

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 Carol East Jose, Mildred Lee, Mirna Shampemba, and Carolyn Jose

"No, No, YES, No"

Did Brazil Learn Nothing From Those Australian DJ’s Who Murdered That Nurse?

Boston, MA – Boy oh boy do I love a practical joke. Here’s a good Holiday prank you can use: Go somewhere those less fortunate hang out, like a Chili’s or the 99, and request a table near the men’s room. That is a crucial detail in order to maximize the ‘lol’ factor. When you’re absolutely sure the men’s room is empty, excuse yourself and head in there. Once inside, take a small sample of a fudge brownie or Suzy Q from your pocket, and wipe it all over the underside of the doorhandle. Now, return to your table and get ready for the time of your life. The next dude that goes in to use the restroom will do what he normally does, make tinkles, pick his nose, fucking “check-in” on Facebook, etc., and then wash up at the sink. When he goes to leave, he is going to grab the handle that you’ve tricked up, and it will be 3 steps out of the men’s room before his brain registers the fact there is a foreign substance on his hand. This is the part where he looks down to see he is now the proud owner of what appears to be a shit-covered hand, which is not ironic, considering I named this prank “Shit Hand.” Watching the reaction that follows his discovery is what’s known in the practical joke world as “the payoff.” How your mark will react is anyone’s guess. Some guys start dry-heaving, and some guys recognize a smeared snack-cake when they see one. Either way, you’re welcome.

Now, here’s a joke from our friends in Brazil who apparently have no laws about killing people with pranks.

 

If Mexico Was A House, Cancun Would Be Its’ Toilet

 

"Introducing Mexican Sensation, N'Spync!"

 

Boston, MA and Cancun, MX – Arriba! I just spent 4 days in Cancun, the cesspool of middle America. A lot of people think Mexico is in South America, and not that it matters, but it isn’t. It’s south OF America, and that’s where I think the confusion lies. Now, our chambermaid thought she was SO talented because she folded some towels to look like a Thanksgiving turkey, so, just before turndown service, I rolled up another towel to make it look like a huge brown donkey dick was going into the turkey’s mouth. I also sent her a message by squirting suntan lotion all over the turkey’s face, just to let her know my donkey means business. I mean, it’s great that this chick felt she could use our bed as a canvas for her artistic expression, but she also has to understand that she’s dealing with someone who has a gift when it comes to creating pornographic tericloth origami. Once, at the Sheraton in Idaho, using only two facecloths and one shower towel, I turned the maid’s replica of Mt. Rushmore into a Presidential circle jerk. Needless to say, after she saw my interpretation of a classic turkey basting, our room simply went back to getting regularly folded towels, the way it should be.

In no particular order, here’s a brief list of things I learned in Mexico.

1. Taking a stroll in Downtown Cancun is just like going to your favorite mall, if your favorite mall consisted of stores called “Crime”, “Disease” and “Garbage.”

2. If you try to get a cab after midnight, the driver actually has no interest whatsoever in taking you anywhere, he is simply using the cab as a cover and storage facility for his fledgling cocaine business.

3. There were so many hookers prowling the streets one could actually get the impression that every female in Mexico is a prostitute. One of them pulled up her skirt, and the only way I can describe what I saw is to say it looked like her pussy had been smashed inside out. It was the very last thing I thought I would see while shopping for a snow globe.

4. The swim up pool bar is not heated, it’s just warm from constant sunlight and thousands of gallons of 98.6 degree urine.

5. I think I read somewhere that if you drank a lot of pineapple juice it will make your ejaculate taste sweeter, but I honestly didn’t notice a difference.

Thanks,

Martin

WTF, Martin Leaves For One Day, And Wicked Improper Goes Full T&A

Q: Are we even trying?

 
 

A: Nope!

 

Females "present" because it works!

 Zing!  We’re just barely out of the trees!  Happy weekend everybody!

My Birthday In Pictures, By Martin Munson

Boston, MA – My birthday was Friday. Thank you. Here, for the first time ever, in chronological order, is a pictorial timeline of events as they occurred over the course of my birthday.

 

"work"

"Dinner....And some kid trying to order a beer tower"

 

"Lotionjob"

 

"Male model standing in for Mr. Munson"

Summer Reflections, by Martin Munson

 

(These are notes from my Summertime travel journal. Please respect my thoughts as if they were your own.)

Hi Journal. Remember last May, when I decided this would be the Summer of Martin? Well, I did it. I golfed. I barbecued. I watched Dice K make $10 million to win one baseball game. I walked amongst the landscapes and vast shorelines of Cape Cod. I did not make love in the dunes, however. We all know how unwelcoming a sandy pussy can be. At the time, it seems like a great idea because your dick has to go someplace, but once you’re in a sandy pussy, it’s almost like you and your dick let out a collective sigh. “Here we go again” said the dick. “Yep, I talked us into this mess, now you literally have to get us the fuck out of it” said Martin. What, journal? Did I at least get a blowjob in the dunes? No, I did not. I would have told people about that by now. Probably via Twitter. Hashtag would have been #duneblow.

Eventually, my travels took me to Portsmouth, New Hampshire, where I tried to combine two of my favorite activities: Transcendental Meditation, and relaxing in a pool with vodka. There I was, half-submerged, eyes-closed, and repeating my mantra over and over to myself, when I became so relaxed that I accidentally let a poop slip out in the wave pool at Water Country. Do I wish I came up with a better excuse than “I was trying to teach the kids a new game called Marco Poopo?” Yeah, I do. But, you know how your mind can start racing when you’re being escorted from somewhere by the police.

to be continued…

I Have Lindsay Lohan and Lindsay Lohan Alone In My Dead Pool

Boston, MA – Well, this chick can’t have too much longer to live. To protect Red and myself from litigation, I usually say “alleged” before I list possible infractions of the law, but there are just too many court documents and pictures taken by THE worst human on earth (paparazzi) to deny these things are anything other than fact. Let’s just review all of the awful things going on her life: drugs, alcohol, drunk driving, arrests, licking Sam Ronson’s pussy, stealing, shoplifting, lip implants, breast implants (this one is good), and “Herbie: Reloaded.” She literally can’t go anywhere without getting arrested. The Hollywood machine is circle jerking all over that saline (breasts or lips, take your pick), and once they’ve milked every last dollar out of her (literally), it’s onto the next chick. At this point, her price quote to appear in a movie must be on par with the guy you hire to make balloon animals at a kids party. (Side note: do a background check on that guy.) Once they know you are having legal and financial issues, your box office draw becomes irrelevant and you are reduced to begging for opportunities, or, in some cases, perhaps even sucking a penis. This level of negotiating is commonly referred to as “the Nic Cage.” (e.g. “My agent and I went to talk to the producer about money, but because they knew about my tax liens, my stints in rehab, and were quickly able to recall my last four flops, I totally had to Nic Cage it.”)

Still, I would with Lindsay, and I want to put my dick into it and my balls into it before she gets her posthume on. Mrs. Munson literally wrote a song last night titled “I Put My Dick In It, I Put My Balls In It”, based on my theory that you can put your dick in, then slowly tuck your balls in there, too. If you don’t think that song will be released on Wicked Improper in the next day or two, you have another thing coming, and that thing is a song about dick and balls.

 

"Martin, Nail Me In This Fake Ranch"

Mrs. Munson Is Gay If She Thinks I’m Going To King Richard’s Faire

From Left to Right: Tits Ghost, Virgin, Fatbags, Some Dickhead

 

Open Letter to Mrs. Munson:

Hi hon, it’s me, your heterosexual husband, Martin. Sorry to break the news to you via the blog, but you are fucking high if you think I’m going to King Richard’s Faire this weekend, or any other weekend, for as long as we both shall live. Don’t try to trick me into going by tempting me with smoked turkey legs and yards of beer, either. If I wanted to spend my afternoon drinking watery ale and eating awful food while leering at sloppy tits, I’d rather just go to Hooters. Oh, “maybe we can take a drive down Sunday”? Yeah, I would love to drive 90 minutes and pay $27 each to watch some carney have his trained hawk retrieve a stuffed animal right around the time the Patriots are kicking off. I know the other Faire-goers like to get into character and interact with complete strangers, but my canned responses to such queries as “Hark, who goes there?” and “Where art thee from?” are “Your mother” and “Go blow theeself”, respectively. Maybe it’s a coincidence, I don’t know, but just on a hunch I did a search and would you believe there are currently 14 registered sex offenders living just down the road from the Faire in Carver? Think they might come out in droves to rub their hogs up against people in the crowd? The only way you could get me to this shitshow is if you guaranteed we would get to witness an actual beheading.

I think my friend Matt Selman said it best: “Why are all of the people at the Obesity Fair wearing Renaissance clothes?”

Thanks, but no thanks Sweet Tits.

Munson, out.

Wicked Improper Celebrity Series: The Hoff

 

"aaaaaaannnnnnnnnnnnndddddd Exhale."

 

Boston, MA – We have lots of people writing in (for a change) to ask how my run-in with Annie Leibovitz ended. Well, as she grabbed her camera bag, she looked over and said sarcastically, “I hope you enjoyed your bagel” and I said “I hope your index finger dies in a fire.” I know that sounds awful, but she told us earlier in the day, ad fucking nauseum, that she had a $1 million insurance policy on it. Her ego was on par with Hasselhoff’s when I met him years back. My girlfriend at the time was an extra in a couple of episodes of Baywatch and invited me to the set. Again, in between takes and trying to find used Pam Anderson bikini bottoms, I found myself at the craft services table where they had these little bite-sized creampuffs that were an absolute delight. So, I’m just standing there, waiting for my girlfriend to be finished so I could nail her in my timeshare, and I’m dunking creampuff after creampuff into the chocolate fountain.
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Hasselhoff: (all ego) “If you keep eating those, you’re going to turn INTO a creampuff.”  (followed by a phony laugh)
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Me: “HAHAHAHAHAHA. That’s not even scientifically possible, Dave.”
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Hasselhoff: “Have we met?”
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Me: “I think so. You’re the guy that doesn’t know how to properly administer CPR, yet has a television show based on his ability to rescue people. I’m the guy that gets to eat and drink on the set of this train wreck, which has ‘shockingly’ been omitted from receiving an Emmy nomination for the 4th straight year.”
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Hasselhoff: “Well, awards are nice, but there are only two things you can do with them: Polish them, or split rails of coke on them.”
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Me: “How would you know?”
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Hasselhoff: “About the polish, or the coke?”
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Me:  “Neither. How would you know about getting an award?”w
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Munson 1, The Hoff 0.

Wicked Improper Celebrity Series!

 

"RUN BRAD!"

 

Boston, MA – I’ve been fortunate to meet a few famous people in my life. From John Ritter, to Fox25′s Gene Lavanchy, I’ve bumped into varying levels of celebrity, even pausing to rub elbows a few times. Perhaps my favorite encounter was with Annie Leibovitz. She is widely recognized as one of the best photographers in the world, an achievement some take lightly because anyone can simply point a camera at something and push a button. At the time, I was dating a plus-sized model who really gave it everything she had when giving oral. I swear, sometimes you’d think she was going to pull your balls through your dick. You know how heavy girls can get after it. Anyway, she invited me to a shoot, and I’m backstage at the craft services table, just standing there trying to decide on a bagel. I grab the last ‘everything’ bagel, and Annie comes over and puts her hand on the bagel one second after I did. Now, I’m a gentleman, but, a bagel is a bagel like a parking spot is a parking spot. She goes “I’m sorry, I had my eye on this bagel.”

Me: “I love everything bagels, too. Since this one is gone, maybe you’d like to slip into something a little more comfortable, like that Sesame bagel?”
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Annie: “I’m sorry. I just finished up a really exhausting shoot. I meant to come over earlier and, you know, set this bagel aside. It’s a process I have. Before the shoot, a glass of grapefruit juice and a cigarette. Then after the shoot, I have an everything bagel, with smoked salmon, lowfat cream cheese, and a light sprinkle of capers.”
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Me: “Well, before an exhausting shoot, certainly, I could see how you would want to follow your typical routine. Maybe some juice combined with the cigarette helps steady your hand, or, see light a certain way or whatever. I will have to disagree with you on the ‘after’ part though, because at this point the shoot is over. Your body has no idea what’s coming next, so, I mean, you could just have a slice of pizza or maybe take a nap. You know?”
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Annie: “I’m sorry, who are you?”
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Me: “I’m Martin Munson.”
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Annie: “Nice to meet you, Martin. I’m Annie Leibovitz. This? (holds out arms and pivots body, looking around) All of this that you see around you? The staging, the lighting, the camera, the assistants? All of it is mine.”
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Me: “Nice to meet you, Annie. I’m Martin Munson. This? (Holds up bagel) All of this bagel that you see in my hand? The top half, the bottom half, the dried garlic and onion bits, poppy and sesame seeds? All of it is mine.”
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Annie: “My god, you really are a prick.”
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Me: “Well, maybe, but I’m a prick with a really good bagel.”
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50 Shades of Munson (Chapter 1)

 

"Click This Beautiful Face!"

 

The follow is an excerpt from the new book, “50 Shades of Munson.” This is not a continuation from the previously released content where Martin was caught dipping his balls into the crisper in the fridge. Reader discretion is advised.

Chapter One

Martin removed the 11 decorative pillows that Mrs. Munson loved having on the bed, in the event “Better Homes and Gardens” decided to show up unannounced to take photos, and climbed in. The ceiling fan was set on high, which was perfect, because Martin’s latest ailment, believe it or not, was jock itch. If you’ve never had jock itch before, it’s kind of like if you mixed a potion that contained poison ivy, bug bites, live ants, and psoriasis, then dunked your balls in it. So there he lay, comforter pulled to the side with the breeze from the ceiling fan providing much needed relief to his burning nethers. Mrs. Munson walked in and began talking about her entire day. There was a lot of this and a lot of that, so without going into all of the details, it definitely involved stuff regarding that particular day. Having extremely itchy balls kind of gives you ADHD, so she would forgive Martin if his mind wandered someplace else, perhaps through a trapdoor in the back of his wardrobe to a magic land where balls never contracted fungus.

“Want to watch the Olympics?” she said.

“Yeah!” he said with just enough sarcasm that indicated he did not give a fuck about the Olympics.

Mrs. Munson turned the channel to the regular cable station instead of going to Hi-Def coverage. With his balls in the midst of hosting their own Waldo Canyon fire, Martin was in no mood to revisit the difference between Hi-Def and regular cable with her. He once asked her if regular cable felt like she had rubbed vaseline over her eyes, and she said “no”, and he said “okay”, and then just decided to let her live in that world.

“Oh. It’s just Water Polo” she said.

“Water Polo sucks its’ own balls. These guys are a fucking joke” he said, probably still stinging from the fact he couldn’t swim.

“Why is this even an Olympic event?” scoffed Mrs. Munson, bemused by the notion this would be an event worth two shits.

“That is a great question, my love. The sport itself is merely a game, nothing more, and perhaps the only difficult part is that they’re treading water the entire time,” Martin said.

“Why don’t they just stop treading water?” said Mrs. Munson.

“That’s another good question, Numkins, but the answer is even better. If they stop treading water, they’ll drown. Maybe they should just take away the ball and the nets, then see who can tread water the longest. The last person treading wins the gold, and the others all receive a silver medal once their dead bodies are pulled from the water,” Martin joked. Oh did they LOL while pondering the record-breaking ratings and revenues that broadcast would generate.

The Water Polo Match, also known as “Game of Douches”, thankfully came to an end and it doesn’t matter who won because it’s not a real sport. Next up was Women’s Beach Volleyball, and Martin’s shaft immediately raged with blood, his helmet arose from his testicles like a Phoenix from the ashes. As if a really big fat person spoiled your moment by joining you in a hot tub with their grotesque water displacement, the speed and girth of which this erection grew audibly thrust air from the room like an angry tsunami. Mrs. Munson gasped for air, not at the mere sight of it, but because of all the available oxygen rapidly leaving the room, running for its’ own life. Once it was at full length, no, it was not even remotely close to being clipped by the ceiling fan, however, you could hang one of those hideous upside-down tomato plants from it. When the swell of oxygen was allowed back into the room, Mrs. Munson was able to finally catch her breath and say “Does Daddy like some of the bums on those volleyball players?” Yes. Daddy did.

Martin would periodically laugh to himself about the future generations of mankind. How online porn had ruined those magic moments that earlier generations had always adored and cherished. The first time you slowly reached out to hold a girl’s hand, unsure if the gesture would be a welcome one, or even more special, reciprocated. The first time you realize how thoughtless and not “in the moment” women can be sometimes when a girl drops her ice cream cone, and then you instinctively hand her your ice cream and say “I don’t even like this flavor” even though it’s your favorite and can’t believe how fucking clumsy she was. The first time you lean forward and kiss a girl on the lips and feel those butterflies in your stomach. And, the first time you go to 2nd base. Ah, yes, 2nd base. That was Martin’s favorite. He liked it there. His first time just so happened to be at summer camp, and if you’re wondering if it’s still considered 2nd base if the girl is sleeping and didn’t know it happened, it most certainly does. Martin distinctly remembers high-fiving his penis after that moment, but obviously while making the Six Million Dollar Man noise in slow-motion so as not to damage the tip. Anyway, Martin allowed himself a brief respite from his ball inferno, and began to wonder about this next generation, completely desensitized to romance and all of the magical moments encompassed during the art of love-make, and what it would be like to be a fly on the wall in today’s bedroom.

Guy: “SAY IT! SAY THE WORDS!”

Girl: “I…I don’t know if…”

Guy: “HURRY! SAY THEM! YOU SAY THE FUCKING WORDS!”

Girl: “P-p-p…Pardon me…would you have any…White Poupon?”

Guy: “RAAAAAHHHHH! BABOOOOOOOOSH!” (releases endless spurts of what the kids now call “love” all over her face)

Girl: “Thank you for putting your love on my face. I love you now.”

Guy: “Yeah. Totally. Hold on, I’m going to post a few pictures and then you’re leaving.”

To be continued….