$44 Million Rubbish

Boston.com – A large 1953 painting by abstract expressionist artist Barnett Newman has sold for $43.8 million at a New York City auction, setting an auction record for his work. Sotheby’s said Tuesday the record price for ‘‘Onement VI’’ (WUHN’-mehnt siks) includes the buyer’s premium. The painting is the last of six in Newman’s Onement series. They’re characterized by what’s called the zip, a distinctive stripe running down the center of the canvas. Four are in museum collections. ‘‘Onement V’’ sold at auction last year for $22.4 million, the artist’s previous auction record. Newman was an exhibitions organizer of the newly opened Betty Parson Gallery in 1946. He played a vital role in the careers of Mark Rothko, Jackson Pollock and others. He also influenced the next generation of artists including Frank Stella. Newman died in 1970.

 

Boston, MA – See, this is why I hate art. Anyone can do art. It’s stupid. Even the guy in “My Left Foot” was painting with the aforementioned Left Foot, and as you can imagine, it looked like someone tied a paint brush to the beak of a rooster on crack and let it go apeshit all over a canvas. While I will grant you that was a great movie, they conveniently left glaring holes in the story, like did he use his Left Foot to brush his teeth, fly a kite, and jerk himself off? There’s no god, but I like to think there is a special force that would allow his Left Foot to compensate for other parts of his body that were lacking. Perhaps he could arch his foot in such a way, like how a monkey does to climb a tree, that would make the perfect sheath for milking himself, but unless there’s a sequel coming that I don’t know about, we may never know. We may never know. But, it’s a Scientific fact that the human body can heighten certain senses when other senses in that same body are failing. One example of that would be blind people who have a keen ear for music, or perhaps can hear a train coming before you and I do. Another example would be why so many people with no arms go on to become great tap dancers.

Now, I purposely set up the layout of this particular blog so you would be SHOCKED when you this piece of $44 million garbage. Then, in contrast, I included an original Martin Munson piece that I created using nothing more than my fingertip and the “Draw Something” app on my iPad2. When you take a moment to truly ponder my gift, it’s hard to imagine what I could accomplish with watercolors. Please be honest with yourself as you take our poll: Which piece exhibits more artistic talent?

 

 

 

Which Art Piece Would You Rather Hang Over Your Bed?

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Heckler Gets Comeuppance At Hands of Human Statue

 

 

Human statues and mimes are annoying.  Also those d1ckheads who hang around tourist spots dressed as superheros, hoping for tips in exchange for posing for pictures.  $10 to get a picture with a horrible imitation of Captain America?  No thanks.  I hate those guys.

But I don’t know how the John Wayne didn’t flip when the douche went in for the wet willy.  In my book, wet willies demand instant retribution.  You bring a knife, I bring a gun.

 

 

Please Sign Our Petition To Allow Gays Into The Boy Scouts (Officially this time)

The Boy Scouts and Wicked Improper needs your help! Did you know that gay boys are not allowed to be “in” (sure, pun intended) the Boy Scouts while being “out” (obviously pun intended) of the closet? This is 2013! You may recall I was in the Boy Scouts for a short period, but had to leave for two reasons:

1. My Troop leader told me I could earn my “MacGuyver Badge” if I used my erection to make a sun dial. Not only is there no such badge, but it took me forever to lather up a hardon while 30 kids were pelting me with gummy bears and chanting “BONER! BONER! BONER!”

2. I quickly became afraid of the dark and camping ever since that same Troop leader was making ghost noises like “Maaaaartin….MAAAAAAARTIN….Unzip the flap and open your mouth” while he used a flashlight to cast his boner shadow on my tent.

Nonetheless, as an equal opportunity blogger, I find that it’s my duty to ask for your vote to FINALLY allow gayboys into the Boy Scouts. We thank you for your support.

Should Gays Be Allowed Into The Boy Scouts?

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After you cast your vote, please see my original artwork titled  “Camping with Evil.” You will find this piece is open for interpretation, after all, isn’t that what art is about? The savvy investor would be wise to make an offer before I die.

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"This is for your Waterworld Badge"

 

 

 

Scarlet Johannson’s Breasts Sentence Hacker To Ten Years In Prison

"We hereby sentence you to 10 years"

 

LOS ANGELES — A federal judge has sentenced a man who hacked into the personal online accounts of Scarlett Johansson, Mila Kunis and other women to 10 years in prison. U.S. District Judge S. James Otero sentenced Christopher Chaney on Monday in Los Angeles. Chaney pleaded guilty to nine felony counts, including wiretapping and unauthorized access to a computer. The biggest spectacle in the case was the revelation that nude photos taken by Johansson herself and meant for her then-husband Ryan Reynolds were placed on the Internet. Chaney also targeted women he knew, sending nude pictures of a former co-worker to her father.

Open letter to Chris Chaney. Chris, may you read this before some guy in prison decides to keep his dick warm this Winter by wearing your asshole for a mitten:

Dear Chris,

I wanted to thank you for the gift(s) you presented us when you exposed, literally, Scarlett Johansson’s tits for the entire world to see. There is something very magical that can happen in ones’ pants when seeing a celebrities’ breasts and/or pussy, especially when they haven’t whored themselves and their struggling careers out to Playboy. It probably didn’t come up in court, but I’m sure it was implied for the jury that you were the first guy on Earth to shoot jets all over his keyboard to Scarlett’s photos. Maybe I watch too much NCIS, but I just find it hard to believe that any Prosecutor worth his salt would enter your keyboard in as Exhibit A, and then shine a blacklight on it so the jury could see that it’s been covered by what appears to be a sea of marching white ants. I can’t even imagine the look on your face when you hacked open that hidden folder filled with her tits. I normally don’t like to talk about stuff like this, but your immediate hardon must have launched your laptop end over end like it was in a coin flip.

For the record, I did not care for your decision to hack the phones of women you knew and then send their nude pictures to their fathers. Fathers do not want to look at the tits on those women. The rest of us do. If you are under house arrest and somehow still have access to a computer, please use our blog and GoDaddy server storage as a hub for these awesome boober pics. I know 84 people that follow us on Facebook that would like to see them.

May your days and nights be filled with peace, jolly games of “Go Fish”, and not too many unwelcome penises getting their exercise in your bum. Set expectations with the other inmates early on during your stay. You are much better off letting them know what your limits are as opposed to allowing an entire cellblock to find out for you.

Thanks. See you in 2022.
Martin

 

Be Honest

Be honest with us. Be honest with yourself. Look at this picture of utter devastation from that literally predictable hurricane, Sandy the cunt, and tell us the first thing that came to mind.

 

"Any ports in the storm, and you have 3 to choose from"

 

Look at picture. Make a selection.

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Anyone In The Mood For Some Gnarls Barkley?

Boston, MA – Mrs. Munson doesn’t believe this guy has Tourette’s. Well, she believes it, but, get this, she thinks people with Tourette’s fake it and make a conscious decision to say “Ass” and “Fuck” and even such combinations as “ass fuck”, etc.

Mrs. Munson: “They don’t need to swear. They can say another word like poopy or crap.”

Martin: “But, that in and of itself is part of the illness. They can’t control themselves or their outbursts. It’s kind of like you with shopping.”

Mrs. Munson: “Well, I don’t believe them one bit. (twitches) Beaver! Shit fucky taint! (twitch, fucked up ‘Tsk’ noises) COCK! Cum shot helmet flick! Beaver punch. OY! Slap my tits. I’m going to take a motherfuck shithead bath. FUCK.”

Then she winked and went and took a bath. And that humor is one reason why I love Mrs. Munson. See? It doesn’t always have to be Wicked or Improper around here. Sometimes there is beauty and light. With that being said, let’s watch this guy get his freak on. Hell yeah pun intended.

 

Martin Munson Original Seascape

Plum Island, MA – What is it about Mother Nature that brings out my creativity? One moment, I am creating memorable drawings in the sand using driftwood, the next I’m jotting romantic nothing’s into the poetry App on my iPhone 4s. Here is a poem I’ve just finished titled “The Island Dunes Easily Remind Me Of Your Cleavage”:

Oh the sun, and the breeze, do they make for some thoughts.
One night, and one moon, and one large woolen blanket.
The stars, with your gaze, and your breath danked of grape crush.
I remember you wouldn’t let me penetrate because of the sand in your pussy.
All was lost, or really though was it? Once you left, with your tears, I jerked off on the jetties.

The end. Keep in mind that poems don’t always have to rhyme.

Here is a Martin Munson original seascape. Take special note of how I used what was available to me during the creation process. That captures the very essence of art itself. If you plan on bidding on this original, please hurry, the tide is coming in.

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Just Another Reminder That You Still Haven’t Hit The Lottery, But Some Douchebags Absolutely Have

I'm not kidding. That's the bag. It's paper.

ecouterre:   The latest It bag for the 1 percent? Jil Sander’s “Vasari,” a “long rectangular silhouette” made from 100 percent coated paper. Translation: It’s a glorified lunch sack. And it could have been yours for $290.  Sure it may be a brown paper bag with stitched seams on each side, a couple of gold-colored metal eyelets, and the words “Jil Sander” emblazoned in barely perceptible type on its bottom, but it’s a brown paper bag nonetheless. If Sander’s brand of “Derelicte” wasn’t offensive enough, the designer also offers a black leather version for $630.

 

People are up in arms about this waste of money and gross show of wealth, but not me.  The one percenters can’t wipe their asses without getting accused of wasting paper.  This is a natural response to the Occupy Wall Street derelicts.  “Hey, look over here dicks!  I could’ve clothed and fed a whole team of rapists, theives, and trustafarians masquerading as a social activists for a month, but instead I bought five paper sacks for my lunches this week.  Suck on that.”

 

This Is Why I Still Prefer The United States Over North Korea

"Five Happy Mothers Turning Their Newborns Over To The State"

  

Because those two in front are most likely dead in a ditch right now for not “smiling” and the rest are probably doing time in one of the Peoples’ sex camps.

 

50 Shades of Munson

"Click the image to reserve your copy!"

 

As an unpaid, unread comedy writer, I felt the time was right to create a parody of the famous bean smashing book “50 Shades of Grey.” The cast of characters you will be introduced to are myself, Martin Munson, and my wife, Mrs. Munson. With the interest of self-preservation in mind, I must inform you that this work of art is purely fictional. If you know any publishers or literary agents, please send them the link or just read the transcript to them over the phone. Whatevs.

Introduction:

Martin Munson stood, alone in his backyard. He did not like yardwork. He did not care for Mother Nature. And yet, there he found himself on a Saturday afternoon, watering the garden and cutting the grass with one of those self-powered mowers. “Oh, what a wonderful fucking mower this is!” he thought. “I only have to go over the same spots again and again, otherwise it leaves sprouts all over the fucking place like a mental patient that cut his own hair.” He allowed himself a moment to ‘lol’ about the sillyness of it all. He had a perfectly working gas-powered mower, but was too lazy to bring a 1-gallon gas can to the station and fill it. He wiped the sweat from his brow, even though he hadn’t even begun mowing. First, he had to move all of the lawn furniture his wife had to have, shit that no one ever used, out of the way. For some reason, even though he was 40 and knew it would be very annoying to do so, he attempted to calculate the temperature by looking directly at the sun and immediately had to shield his eyes. “Ow, you dumb fuck. You knew it was going to end like that.” He had to stand motionless and steady himself for about 30 seconds, until the spots all went away. When his eyes began to focus again, he noticed his ballbag was hanging lower than it usually did. Sure, it was humid, but he could feel the weight of them actually pulling down, almost as if they wanted to send him a reminder about gravity. He looked around and noticed his wife wasn’t around. “Hmmm. Shocker. Must be inside, enjoying the A/C and maybe dilling out. That’s what I would be doing if I was her. Fuck this shit.” And with that, he let the mower, the model of which is typically owned by those less fortunate and/or poor, topple over itself and lay in the fucking yard.

Once inside, Martin decided to cool his balls down by draping them into the waist-high crisper in their stainless steel Whirlpool fridge. Yes, he was aware the crisper would not make his balls crisp, just like you should be aware it does not make your lettuce crisp. Martin would laugh at this so-called refrigerator feature every once in a while. The crispers, the deli meats drawer, the butter tray, etc. “All of them are the exact same temperature and none of them are even close to being sealed airtight. I wish people would get their heads out of their asses” he would say. Mrs. Munson came walking in just as Martin withdrew his nut pouch and closed the door to the fridge.

“Were you putting your balls in the crisper again?” she said.

“No. I was just looking for something to drink,” Martin said.

Never one to believe, Mrs. Munson opened the fridge and gave it a quick inspection.

“And I suppose if I measured the two circular imprints of missing dew on the drawer, they would not be the exact shape and circumference of your two low hanging balls?” she said with a confident air of suspicion.

“Hmm. The only way to ensure accuracy is if you take the measurements with your mouth,” he said.

To be continued…

Pete Wentz And The Whole GD Publishing Industry Are Dicking Me

 

"I'm not just a famous musician, I'm also an author. Oh! You don't read? That's ok, my books are mostly pictures!"

 

First, I have noted dickhead and absolute poon smasher John Mayer giving me advice on how to raise my daughter.  Now Jessica Simpson’s brother in law (ex?) Pete Wentz is writing children’s books in between cheating on Ashlee with Vegas strippers?  F8ck.  Off.

 

ps – you know who else is writing (and publishing) children’s books?  Jaime Lee Curtis!

 

High waisted is how they did it back in the day.

"Can I interest you in a picture book, or perhaps some pudding to loosen your stool?"

Would You Eat This Roast Beef Sandwich?

Boston, MA – I have been going to Bill and Bob’s Roast Beef for nearly three decades. Over the past few months, my worst fears were realized when I noticed one of the guys behind the counter getting a gay spring in his step whenever I walked in. Subtle about it he is not, because one time when he was on break, we momentarily locked eyes as he slowly began to blow one of those pizza rolls, then winked and pointed at me while deepthroating it. Another time he pantomimed stroking an abnormally large erection behind his apron, but when he saw the look of horror on my face he pulled out a sub roll and said “ta-da!”, like he was the magician David Cockerfield. Then today, I hesitantly ordered the usual, “Super beef, three way”, which means a large roast beef sandwich with spicy sauce, mayo, and american cheese. Well, I never saw someone so gay so happy to make a sandwich in all of my life, and I’ve been to Quiznos in Provincetown. When I got home, I took off the lid to add more sauce only to find out that he got creative with my sandwich. I finally came to terms with the fact that it is not just my imagination, he is clearly trying to send me a message. Part of me thinks I should be flattered, after all, I kind of look like Fred Savage if he lived in the woods.

I guess I’ll leave it up to you guys. Would you still eat this sandwich? (Pictured below)

Would You Eat This Roast Beef Sandwich?

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Ansel Adams Was Pretty Good At Pushing A Button

Boston, MA – Mrs. Munson wanted to go to the Peabody Essex Museum this weekend to see the “works” of Ansel Adams, the world famous photographer who pointed his camera at beautiful scenery and captured it by hitting a button. Oh, believe me, I have had many a verbal brouhaha with my all-male book club “The Literature Lads” about how anyone, provided they have at least one finger, can be a photographer. We don’t just read and review books, though, we also talk about guy stuff like whether or not the Red Sox season is over (spoiler: it is) or how if a woman is giving you a prostate massage, she better withdraw her finger extremely slow unless she wants to create a “Backdraft” event and end up with a little tadpole in her lap.

Anyway, if you can’t make it to the Museum, or don’t want to spend $15 to see some guys’ posters, might I suggest you view the works of Ansel Adams for free on Google.

Here is one of the images that I really felt a deep connection to.

Me: “Does this one remind you of anyone?”

Mrs. Munson: (sigh)

 

"Geyser"