This one is for WI reader Claude Julien and his very specfic request which you can revisit right here.
She got fired for this? I don’t see what the big deal is, but this is tremendous* news: it means she’s available to come over to Wicked Improper for newscasts and guest posts!
(Martin?)
* 
This.
Happy St. Patrick’s Day!
Try to stay focused on this video. The accent alone is almost enough to make it look like white Play-Doh is being forced through your zipper.
Good luck.
UPDATE: This video has been removed for copyright issues. Sweet blog now.
"This pose is "Crouching Tiger, Hidden Pussy"
NYPost.com – She was finishing her workout — he was just starting his. An Upper West Side woman in post-yoga, meditative bliss was allegedly awakened by the sounds of a maintenance worker pleasuring himself near her mat, a lawsuit claims. Keiko Herskovitz, a regular at Equinox’s Pure Yoga on West 77th Street, says she was in the corpse pose called shavasana, lying with her eyes closed when she “heard someone walk into the room.” Herskovitz ignored the noise until “she felt that there was a person next to her, and she opened her eyes to find a Pure Yoga. . . maintenance associate about two feet away, masturbating,” the suit says. Hershkovitz’s attorney, Eric Creizman, is hiring a private investigator to determine if the maintenance worker “has been involved in additional incidents.” She is suing Related Companies, which owns Equinox, for unspecified damages. A spokesperson for Pure Yoga said the studio is “aware of the allegations and takes them seriously. Police have told us there’s no evidence of a crime.”
Unspecified damages? I thought she was fairly specific: She saw some Mexican guy playing his pantaloon maracas until they would ultimately save her a trip to the juice bar. What an amazing story of where we are as a society, in terms of romance. Somehow, in just 50 short years, we’ve gone from “Pardon me, may I have this dance?” to “Tilt your head back and look at the camera! Open your mouth! WIDER! Baboooosh!” Not saying it’s wrong, just saying we’ve arrived at an extremely fragile time in the history of courting. I actually have a few romantic Hallmark Valentine’s Day card ideas that I’m willing to just put out there, pro-boner, which means I’m not getting paid for them.
1. A card that you send to single guys to let them know that it’s okay to be alone, then when they open it there’s a single serving of lube and one neatly folded Kleenex.
2. A card whose cover says “Remember when…”, then the inside reveals a circular cut-out, maybe 2 to 3 inches in diameter, for those special couples that met through a glory hole.
3. A card that your date opens and has to circle either Y or N to answer the question on everybody’s mind “Are you for abortion?” If she circles “N”, you can tell her that it was very nice meeting her.
4. A card that looks like a lottery ticket with 3 choices, so your wife or girlfriend scratches her own destiny! One prize could show a cork popping from a bottle (she gets champagne!), the second could show a Bon-Bon (chocolates from Ghirardelli!), and the third could show a helmet penetrating someone’s bottom (“Congrats, you just won a trip to Anal World!”)
5. A card that sets a romantic tone for what the evening may hold. For example, when your wife opens her card, she gets squirted in the face.
There really are just too many to list them all. Now, despite my best efforts to find you images of Keiko Herskovitz (whose name sounds like she’d be equally good at giving you a massage as counting the till) I am sorry to report that I was unable to locate any. Anyway, she definitely sounds half Asian, unfortunately, unlike the Asians I know from Xvideos, that half doesn’t sound like it enjoys oil, rafts, or jism launch. Also, before you go, here’s an Asian-related Wicked Improper fun fact: If you open a fortune cookie and it’s empty, that means you’re going to have a miscarriage.
Boston, MA – There was a famous song once that began “From Boston to Austin, and new towns I’m lost in…” but I forget the rest of the words because I only ever heard it after ripping bong hits. From what me and my brain can remember, it was quite catchy. Now, Red and I are taking a well deserved vacation from all this free (i.e. pro-boner) blogging (even though we got 800 hits today for “Courtney Stodden’s tits” without posting anything.) Red, myself, Mrs. Red, and Mrs. Munson will be sunning and funning in the artsy, craftsy, bbqsy, and tattoosy town of Austin, Texas.
Anyway, we heard you “had” to go to the Bikini Bar, but, see below. Kind of looks like a poor man’s Hooters, which is ironic, because Hooters is already a poor man’s Hooters of another poor man’s Hooters. If you think about that too hard, the endless cycle of watered down beer and greasy wings that I guarantee will give you the hot and squishies by 10am the following morning, you will fuck up the space time continuum in which you live. The bottom line is “they have tits”, hence, “we are going.”
In closing, please don’t piss and moan about how cold it is. Don’t be that dickhead. We all chose to live here, and no one wants to hear about how your car said “3 degrees” when you got into it this morning. Thanks to the forecast, and the fact my dick crawled inside out and back in my belly, I was also aware it was rather chilly, so shut the fuck up. ”Cold enough for ya?” you dick. You unoriginal, predictable weather dick. Yeah, it’s fucking cold enough for me, and it will be cold enough for me between the months of November and March for the rest of my fucking life because I too am a cunt that chose to live here.
Other than that, have a good couple of days.
Martin
"NO...no.....NO....YES....YES"
Oh, good luck working those pedals with high heels.
We were the first to break the Lance Armstrong blood doping scandal well after the major news outlets had done so. Still, for some of you that found out here, the news that Lance was basically drinking donkey blood from a cowboy boot to help him pedal a bike really fast was quite a shock. Here are our Top Tweets about Lance appearing on Oprah to tell the world what it already knew. Cast your vote for your favorite below. Like the Tour de France, this poll has no point whatsoever.
1. Oprah: “Lance, this has to be a very dark period for you. Speaking of dark periods, Gayle King and I are on the same cycle. Sure, pun intended.”
2. Why doesn’t Lance try ball doping?
3. When Lance said he “felt isolated” and “in a dark place”, Oprah must have thought about her own past inside Gayle King’s pussy.
4. Lance tells Oprah “the doping process is very similar to when Eric Northman feeds on True Blood.”
5. Sheryl Crow was with Lance ‘before’ he got his ball removed, so everybody stop saying that she can only teabag one ball at a time.
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"No, outrageous wealth doesn't change people"
Boston, MA and Austin, Texas – Lance Armstrong has formally announced he will be interviewed by Oprah Winfrey today. Say what you want about what me and my dick like, but we think Oprah is a total NILF (a Narcissist, come on, you guys.) All indications are that Lance will admit to using Performance Enhancing Drugs and talk about the time he and Matthew McConnaghey played Ping Pong with his cancerous testicle while tripping on mushrooms. According to sources, Lance has to keep correcting himself when going over the details of that evening: “So, we were tripping balls, and…well, Matt was tripping balls, I was just tripping ball.” Never one to be over-shadowed because she is a living, breathing vampire, Oprah will also disclose something personal to her audience: Like Lance, Oprah also has 7 yellow jerseys, but hers are for winning the Tour de Gayle King’s pussy.
And that’s just some of the news in our world. Good day, everybody.
Martin
"adouchebagsayswhat?"
Yesterday I’m at the gym blasting my pecs and I see this guy on a leg machine talking to himself, pretty loudly. Then I realize that he’s talking on his f*cking bluetooth, perpetrating a business call about some shit or other. This is not a thing is it?! Then I recognize this f-er (who’s probably no older than 25 or so) as the same douche who often sits in the locker room and does the same thing – yaps on the phone about this or that. Who is he trying to impress? If you go into a locker room, you get to the business of getting dressed, and get out, end of story.
I say, if you want to talk on the phone at the gym, walk into the entry way by the cubbies, where NO ONE is working out, and you certainly don’t loiter around the locker room allegedly making deals while guys are stepping out of the shower and swinging their dicks all in your face.
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Boston, MA – The wait is over! Boston.com has finally released their much anticipated list of the “Best Places to Kiss” in Boston! Like most guys, I used to love kissing. All I wanted to do was make out with a girl and keep my tongue in her mouth for as long as possible for some reason. Then I got laid around 26 and never cared if I kissed anyone again for as long as I live. The truth is, now I just really enjoy the art of achieving climax or having my penis wet for awhile some other way, for example, from a mouth. Who knows, maybe something else will come along and trump those sensations, but until that day comes it is all about roping jets out.
So, let’s run through a couple of examples of Boston.com’s bullshit list of places to make-out with some tramp you just met in the basement of Ames Plow.
1. Faneuil Hall – After an exhausting day following Paul Revere’s “Freedom Trail” (which just so happens to take you directly by every single storefront in Boston), haggling the prices for knockoff goods with Pakistani vendors, and stepping over cobblestone cracks crusted with blood, vomit, and dried pee pee, you really want to smooch that someone special.
"That looks like a painful way to hold an umbrella"
2. The Boston Public Library – Oh, does anything make a woman hotter than the Dewey Decimal System and the unmistakable sounds of homeless guys masturbating all over the couches in Fiction? I could see if they named this a place for dudes to go meet other dudes, where they’d pull out a couple of encyclopedias and blow each other through the opening, but you can’t tell me that heterosexual couples are kissing in the library, sorry.
"Move a book, slide your dick through"
The Charles River – What better place to simultaneously kiss a woman and potentially witness the serial killer in Boston that no one is talking about sinking another victim with weights?
Girl, to self: "I'm in love" Guy, to self: "I wish I was with my friends at The Harp"
(Photos courtesy of Boston.com. Skepticism courtesy of WickedImproper.com)
With boring teams and blowouts galore, the only thing that may have salvaged my f-ing atrocious alcohol-free (YES) Thanksgiving last week was this hilarious play by Mark Sanchez, which Mrs. Red made us play back over and over this weekend because she thought she could spot Mark’s huge member he looked like such a dickhead.
Free Tebow!
Boston, MA – If there’s one thing guys know about, it’s how to relax. As a fully grown man, sure, there are times when you want to get in the bathtub with Pinterest and a glass of really nice wine from the Yellow Tail vineyards, even though you only make it about 3 minutes before it’s time to jerk off. Since the beginning of time, men have tried it just about everywhere you can think of (photograph kiosk at the mall, at the top of a Ferris Wheel while it’s stopped to let other passengers on, on the love seat at the Red Roof Inn while undocumented maids are knocking on the door) and some places you haven’t (in the dressing room at TJ Maxx, in the dentist chair while the assistant was just outside the room hitting the X-ray button, in a tanning bed or while getting an MRI, etc.) One place that I find extremely refreshing is directly in front of a strobe light. Thanks to science and the stroboscopic effect, even though you are pounding it like a chimp on a sugar high, it gives off the neat illusion that your hand(s) are completely still. The next thing you know, your balls are erupting and it looks like you shot a 3 foot icicle.
With that being said, there are some that believe Yoga can be nearly as powerful as masturbating when it comes to finding your center. If you don’t have 5 minutes for a complete Wicked Improper Yoga Session, FAST FORWARD TO 3:53 THRU 4:11 OMFG sound the Boing alarm.
w
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"Matt, are you going to wear your white button down halfway undone and put your hand in your pocket? Because I will too."
Boston, MA – Lance Armstrong has been ordered by the USADA to return the trophies from his 7 Tour de France victories and his ceremonial yellow jerseys, but they cannot take a decades’ worth of hot memories, including blow and rimjobs, two on ones, three on ones, Asian raft massages, dry handies in first class, hot tub orgies, and playing “Pop Yo’ Dick” where you pop your dick from one chick’s mouth and put it into anothers while McConnaghey takes pictures with his iPhone. Lance has decided not to spend his days trying to repair a tarnished reputation, instead focusing on his Foundations’ work for cancer research. “They can take away my trophies, the yellow jerseys, and my bikes if they want, but they’ll never be able to take away my remaining ball” said Lance. He was, of course, referring to his one lonesome nut, the other testicle being removed and put into a pickle jar after his own battle with cancer. When asked the question the entire world wants to know the answer to, “since you only have one ball, does that mean you only shoot half a load?”, Lance would only say “no comment”, but did add, with a smirk, that he’s very pleased with his volume and frequency of which it’s being released. Lance then compared himself to other athletes that have had awards and records stripped away. He offered the recent travails of Reggie Bush as a comparison to his own situation. “Reggie Bush had to give back his Heisman Trophy, but, let’s face it, he celebrated that night when he won, he got a huge NFL contract which he got to keep, and he always did and always will get the finest pussy imaginable. So, USADA can take all of those things I no longer have a use for anyway. I’m 41, I’m retired, and I will always be able to snap my fingers and get my dick sucked. Have fun at work tomorrow, dickheads.”
Lance is now living in an undisclosed location, focusing his time and effort on allowing women to throw their sopping wet pussies at him simply because he was one of the best in the world to make his feet go around and around on a bicycle sprocket.
"Probably will skip the high school reunion"
Wisconsin (Home of cheese) – For this guy, being forced to sleep on the couch might not be much of a punishment. Police in Wisconsin have accused a 46 year old man of enjoying curbside sex with a discarded sofa. Waukesha Patch reports that an off-duty officer was jogging when he spotted Gerard Streator allegedly doing the deed with the furniture. Authorities charged Streator on Thursday with one count of lewd and lascivious behavior, which carries a maximum of nine months in prison. According to a police report obtained by the Smoking Gun, officer Ryan Edwards said Streator “had been thrusting his pelvic area against the cushions and trying to sexually gratify himself by rubbing his penis between the two cushions.” So much for resting in the love seat. When Edwards approached Streator, the suspect allegedly fled. Police arrested him the next day at the hotel where he works.
What the fuck is this world coming to? We now know all we need to know about Gerard Streator, but who is the cop that couldn’t catch a guy running down the street with lint and old popcorn pieces all over his boner?
Cop: (winded) “FUCK YOU FOR MAKING ME RUN, GERARD! I’LL CATCH UP WITH YOU AND YOUR VASTLY SUPERIOR STAMINA TOMORROW AT THE FRONT DESK OF THE RED ROOF, YOU COUCH FUCKER!”
This guy gets to live after fucking a sleep sofa to death, but Trayvon gets shot for wearing a hood? Making it worse, this is a discarded sofa we’re talking about. It’s not even a pretty new one like you’d see in the showroom at Jordan’s. So this guy was, what, walking down the street and was like “That’s it, I’m going to put my dick into the next thing I see”? Is that the thought process? “I’m so fucking horny today, instead of just banging my couch, I’m going to head out for a walk with my knob practically tearing through my sweatpants and see if I can’t go fuck some other guy’s old throwaway”? Everyone remembers being a 14 year old kid. I would have run my dick through a table saw if I thought it would make that funny tickle. But this is a grown ass man. Granted, yeah he’s got a wacky eye and shit probably not going a’ight for him, but go into a bird sanctuary and put your dick into a rotted tree stump or something. A couch out in public? Come on, man. Now what happens to that couch? If it had a “free” sign on it, now some motherfucker has to put an asterisk next to “free”, so it says “* – still free, but now it has Gerard Streator’s cum between the cushions.” You fucking asshole, Gerard. I can’t put things on my sidewalk without you and your dick coming along to literally fuck everything up? You’re everything that’s wrong with sidewalk giveaways.
Joe Biden Votes: "Aye!"
The Daily Caller: Vice President Joe Biden may have stuck his foot in his mouth again on Friday, using an awkward off-the-cuff phrase to compliment high school cheerleaders during a campaign stop.
“He began by asking which teams were represented — football, soccer, lacrosse and cross-country. Any others? He asked. ‘Cheerleaders,’ a group of girls shouted.”
“Guess what, the cheerleaders in college are the best athletes in college,” Biden said. “You think, I’m joking, they’re almost all gymnasts, the stuff they do on hard wood, it blows my mind.”
Zero. Zero chance this was inadvertent. We wouldn’t allow a Vice President in this country who couldn’t turn a phrase or slap a double entendre on your ass (lol), and that’s was slippery Joe was doing here. Classic Speed Seduction. Get them thinking about the true meaning of his phrase, but with a plausible out. Then drop a little “Hey babe, wanna see why I put the “Vice” in Vice President?” and boom, she’s showing him her pom poms and performing a human pyramid on his vice presidential boner.
Touche, you dirty bastard.
"The Belle of the Balls"
Boston, MA – By now, everyone knows about Michelle Kosilek, the hot female inmate at MCI Concord who’s lobbying to upgrade from cock to pussy on the taxpayers dime. I’ll be honest, I am in favor of this operation and I don’t care how much it costs us. I would rather see 20 grand go to a new perfectly mounted pussy than watch road crews fill potholes on the way to Deval’s summer home. I have so many questions about this new pussy you don’t even get it. Let’s start with day one after the operation. You know how inmates spend the majority of their days pounding their meat, I mean, there’s only so many games of “Go Fish” you can play. So, first eye open, this guy/girl is going to reach down, and instead of grabbing his tired old rod, he’s going to find himself wrist-deep in his brand spanking new vagina. What the FUCK. You talk about a good place to either hide contraband or help you perform magic tricks. Now I can almost hear the wheels spinning in your head. Who is the guard that draws the short straw to put on a rubber glove and check this new pussy for drugs? Is this procedure called a Dicktelectomy or a Vaginioplasty? Not to get all Matrix on you, but can he taxidermy his own dick and use it to dill himself out later on? Who has to place the order for the vagina, and do they do it online? Is it a vagina from a dead body? Is it a dead vagina, you guys? Brought back to life? When the doctor is sewing this new pussy on, will he have no other choice but to think “well, here we go, 12 years of medical school and training, the culmination of which amounts to putting this pussy on so it can get pounded by 4,000 dicks in Concord”? Who is this doctor that decided to forgo the quest to find a cure for cancer and instead opted to specialize in hacking dicks off into a pickle jar?
Doctor: “I want everybody to remain professional during this procedure. Save your “let’s use his testicles to play beer pong” jokes for the lunchroom. Just kidding! Nurse, pass me the Sawzall and everybody else get your iPhones ready, I’m about to rip this guy’s dick off.”
In closing, I think I can speak for all of us when I say that if you were in prison for life, you would consider getting your dick lopped off and a pussy put on, if for no other reason than to give your asshole a rest. Please show some decency and respect for Michelle’s new pussy by casting your vote below. And remember, none of this would have ever been possible if he didn’t murder his wife to begin with.
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Mistake or not, Darwin proved you can't do sh1t about it.
Darwin Project: On 11 November 1838 Darwin wrote in his journal ‘The day of days!’. He had proposed to his cousin, Emma Wedgwood, and been accepted; they were married on 29 January 1839. Darwin appears to have written these two notes weighing up the pros and cons of marriage in the months immediately preceding his engagement.
If not marry | Travel. Europe, yes? | America???? If I travel it must be exclusively geological United States, Mexico Depend upon health & vigour & how far I become Zoological. If I dont travel.— Work at transmission of Species— Microscope simplest forms of life— Geology. ?.oldest formations?? Some experimets— physiological observation on lower animals. Live in London for where else possible in small house, near Regents Park—keep horse—take Summer tours Collect specimens some line of Zoolog: Speculations of Geograph. range, & Geological general works.—Systematiz.— Study affinities.
If marry—means limited, Feel duty to work for money. London life, nothing but Society, no country, no tours, no large Zoolog. Collect. no books. Cambridge Professorship, either Geolog. or Zoolog.— comply with all above requisites— I could not systematiz zoologically so well.— But better than hybernating in country, & where? Better even than near London country house.— I could not indolently take country house & do nothing— Could I live in London like a prisoner? If I were moderately rich, I would live in London, with pretty big house & do as (B), but could I act thus with children & poor? No— Then where live in country near London; better, but great obstacles to science & poverty. Then Cambridge, better, but fish out of water, not being Professor & poverty. Then Cambridge Professorship,—& make best of it, do duty as such & work at spare times— My destiny will be Camb. Prof. or poor man; outskirts of London, some small Square &c:— & work as well as I can
This pro/con list could not possibly tell you more about the species of Man if Darwin himself had hit you across the face with one of his books. Do men want to get married? Hell no! We want to indolently take to the mf-ing country and do nothing! What in the Sam Hill’s wrong with that?! Look at that list again, through a 21st century lens:
That entire list screams “DO. NOT. GET. MARRIED!” But guess what, science fans? He did it anyway! And this guy was allegedly in total control of his destiny. But he ignored his better judgment and went ahead and got hitched. He was powerless to do anything but. We’re all animals and our nature INSISTS we do it. I don’t know why he traveled to Galapagos, he could’ve laid out his famous book based on those actions alone, and saved himself 50 years of research.
"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…
Boston, MA – Don’t let this blog title fool you. I’ve done a complete 180 on my feelings about “Day of Games“, the makers of ladderball sets, beerpong tables, and cornhole, among others. They’ve basically done what each and every one of us dreams of doing every day: Starting our own company and creating fun products (such as the MotherSucker I showcased last week.) Now, I know what you’re thinking: “So, Martin, if you’ve done a 180, why don’t you go back and change the headline to something complimentary?” and the answer to that is, predictably, and shamelessly, “to entice people to read this blog.”
Now, here is the actual image after using the Day of Games ladderball set one time. Please do not compliment me on the brickwork, that was done by a couple of naturally gifted guineas I know from East Boston who have masonry in their bloodline. Instead, take special note of the top rung, and how upon impact it shattered and frayed, kind of like if you were to watch a cartoon character light a firecracker off in his asshole.
Naturally, this prompted an email from me, and giving credit where credit is due, I received a reply about an hour later. Here is my email:
To: sales@dayofgames.com
Good Afternoon,I purchased your ladderball set and used it one time. Here are the issues:The top rung on both sides cracked upon impact during normal use.The bottom wooden piece “kept falling off” despite being tightened with a screwdriver.Who is responsible for quality control? It appears that either no one tested these units and shipped them, or, worse, ‘did’ test these units and saw the lack of quality and shipped them anyway.I think I understand the concept. I am under the impression that you want me to continue ordering plastic rungs from you. It’s not going to happen, but I can understand that business model.Please look at the attached image. As one of the writers of a blog that boasts 900 hits per day, 101 followers on Twitter, and 57 followers on Facebook, I look forward to your prompt reply.Thanks,Martin
From Sales@dayofgames.com (Brent)Sorry, thats not the concept. If something breaks we will gladly replace the item.
Please let me know what address we can ship some replacement plastic rungs to.
If you need a new bottom piece, happy to send that along as well, the little black end cap?
Brent
I know most of you are dying to make some kind of Sandusky joke with that “new bottom piece” thing, but please save it for another blog. Am I still somewhat concerned that the top rung exploded like your bum does the day after you eat jalapeno poppers at Chili’s? Yeah, I mean, I don’t want Day of Games to send me 9,000 plastic rungs. However, this is exactly how you handle customer issues. This is how you deal with an unsatisfied customer. You don’t funnel them into some god damn endless phone loop like those vampires at Comcast. You receive the email, you consider the email, you weigh the options using common sense, and you respond to the email. Kudos to Brent and Day of Games, makers of the BEST Ladderball set in the history of joy.
Thanks,
Martin
p.s. Sorry to Day of Games for luring readers in with a negative headline. Please send 9,000 plastic rungs to us. Also, portions of my email in this blog were embellished to make me not sound like a pussy.
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)
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"Oh no, it happened again..."
Boston, MA – Are you one of the millions of men that are prone to untimely, crippling erections? Do you curse yourself for wearing khakis when meeting a beautiful woman because you know a reputation-ending trouser rocket isn’t far behind? What if I told you I had yet another invention idea to help cure your erectile dysfectile? What if someone developed some kind of half-inch thick rubber underpants, or perhaps a typical cotton panty with a front pouch that was re-inforced with a titanium net? As the blood begins its’ hourly rush to your helmet, the underpants would restrain your boner from poking through your pants, so you’re protected whether you’re trying to spy on milfs in the changing rooms at TJ Maxx by banking your line of vision off a mirror, or would simply like to relax at the beach without having to put your dick through the opening of a box of Wheat Thins. I can even envision them coming with a small drainage area for guys that leak a little bit when they see cleavage.
Please cast your vote to name this product before we present to manufacturers/investors. Or, submit a new suggestion to our comments and WIN a prize from Wicked Improper.
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