Well, that manhunt is over. Chris Dorner had that wallet. Which wallet? The one that says Bad Motherfucker. Dude was on a mission to kill all 300 million of us (give or take 30 million illegal aliens.) The LAPD was having none of it, though. They basically gave Chris Dorner up for Lent, and then some. It’s too early to speculate (or is speculating what you do when it’s too early?), but some have suggested the Miranda Rights went something like this: “You have the right to remain well done. Anything you ‘filet’ or do can be ‘flambeed’ against you in a court of Ruth’s Chris.” Anyway, he’s toast, and yes, it’s very sad that people lost their lives, but in the very warm and crispy end, at least we won’t have to stomach yet another insanity plea, or pay for this asshole to set personal daily jerkoff records. Honestly, there is nothing else to do in prison.
Prisoner 1: “Want to play Go Fish?”
Prisoner 2: “Nah, you know what? I’m just gonna pound my meat until my release. Pun intended! Heyooo! Hey, can I borrow the fake pussy you made from axle grease and a Kleenex box?”
Now, here are a couple of popular tweets from Wicked Improper last night, as they happened in Real Time during this manhunt. Vote for your favorite! People like to click buttons!
1. Please retweet to Chris Dorner: “Chris, it’s Martin. They have you surrounded. You have enough time for Dinty Moore stew or maybe one last fap.”
2. Little Chris Dorner, sat in the corner, eating his Dinty Moore Stew, he turned on CNN to see Anderson lisp “Chrith! They’re coming for you!”
3. Djorner Unchained
4. Little Chris Dorner, sat in the corner, getting all toasty and crisp, “she sells sea shells by the seashore” is how Anderson works on his lisp.
5. Sizzler to offer “Dorner Burger”, two all beef patties smoked over natural hardwood until well done.
Mrs. Red and I had our annual PARTY OF THE YEAR last week to celebrate
seeing your neighbors’ wives in low cut dresses Christmas and New Years. It had the usual – ridiculous amounts of booze, not one but two barbequed pork loins that were so good that if you ate any it would literally make your head explode, some nosey neighbor who wanted to know: how much the party cost, did I get any bonuses this year, and what was my adjusted gross income? Very few low cut dresses.
This year something weird happened. No, no Christmas flashing. People left about two or three ounces of booze in four or five f-ing bottles. Finish it! So we decided we should make a decent effort to polish those nearly dead soldiers off so I have more room on my bar for the booze nobody likes, like Disarrono and J&B.
Here’s what happens when you pull that shit:
Mrs. Red: Tomorrow we have to get ready for [something I forgot].
MR: Because we won’t be ready Monday if we don’t do it tomorrow.
R: But… You know tomorrow’s not Sunday right?
R: It’s not Saturday today.
MR: It’s Friday?
R: It’s Thursday.
MR: We’re going on the f-ing wagon next week.
The end! (Until tonight)
Orange County Register: Dina Kourda, on behalf of People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals, is requesting that the city install a sign to memorialize the hundreds of fish killed in a traffic crash.
The sign would read, “In memory of hundreds of fish who suffered and died at this spot,” to remind tractor-trailer drivers of their responsibility to the animals who are “hauled to their deaths every day,” according to the letter provided by PETA.
The crash occurred Oct. 11 when a truck, carrying 1,600 pounds of live fish crashed with two other vehicles.
“Research tells us that fish use tools, tell time, sing, and have impressive long-term memories and complex social structures, yet fish used for food are routinely crushed, impaled, cut open, and gutted, all while still conscious. Sparing them from being tossed from a speeding truck and slowly dying from injuries and suffocation seems the least that we can do,” the letter continued.
I like fish. I like dogs. I’m even ok with cats because they don’t give a shit and they know how to piss in their own space, even if they do permanently hate their owners until they day they die from eating too many fish bones or whatever else they find in your trash. But I don’t know about that whole “research” comment. They tell time? Come on. The planet moves, the moon orbits, they feel the tides, ok. But I doubt very much if my goldfish can wake me up in time for f-ing 6am flight. 6am?! In order to get in line in time for your anal probing at the hands of the TSA flunkies, you have to arrive at the airport before it’s even open. And god forfuckingbid you have to fly to South Carolina on business during what the rest of the world considers a holiday. ”WHOOOHOOO! We’re going down for a weeklong golf trip! Uh, dude, why are you wearing a suit?” F-ers.
You know what my own research tells me? That fish are awesome when they’re pan seared, maybe with some butter and white wine and garlic and pepper, no need to go crazy. Or if you grill them in foil and then geeently pull the whole skeleton out just so. Mmm-mmm-mm. Fish. Good stuff.
Hey, you want to mourn someone? Mourn the poor bastard who shelled out $7.99 a pound for a veritable shitload of pacific snapper that’s at the bottom of some dump in California now, mourn him and his dying business.
And ps – “the least we could do” is probably “nothing,” not that shit that you said.
The Blaze: First lady Michelle Obama this week repeated her assertion that obesity is a national security threat:
Dr. Oz: “From my perspective, the number one greatest national security threat that we have is obesity, do you ever think about it that way?”
MO: “Well absolutely,” Obama replied.
Huh. Maybe she or one of her handlers might want to let the FBI in on that fact:
It’s not too late – take a long lunch, go out and get the following ingredients, and put together a Friday Afternoon Club you’ll never remember.
Strain the grapefruit juice (or leave the pulp in for a rustic feel), stir it all together, and pour into a salt rimmed goblet over ice and a lime squeeze. Put your party over the top with some fresh guacamole (salt, pepper, avocado only, fcs no mayo), chips, warm bread, chopped cherry tomatoes in olive oil w/ garlic and basil, and kalamata olives. When you pull this gem off, it should look a little something like this:
Boston, MA – A Massachusetts man said he suffered second-degree burns from a grill after applying sunscreen aerosol spray on parts of his body. Brett Sigworth said he applied Banana Boat sunscreen to his body before walking over to his grill, not knowing it would still be flammable after it was on his skin. “I went into complete panic mode and screamed,” Sigworth said. “I’ve never experienced pain like that in my life.” The result was second-degree burns to his chest, ear and back, the only areas where he applied the sunscreen. Ten days after the incident, Sigworth is still showing the effects of the incident. The warnings on the bottle of Banana Boat sunscreen read, “Flammable, don’t use near heat, flame or while burning.” But nothing about once it’s applied. He doesn’t plan to sue, but is sharing his story and photos with others to make sure no one else ends up in the hospital after applying sunscreen. “It was so scary,” he said, “and I just wouldn’t want to see it happen to anybody else.”
I’m calling bullshit on this guy only applying sunscreen to his “chest, ear and back.” No one can reach their own back, and why wouldn’t he do both ears, unless he’s missing one? This is why I don’t trust that spray-on sunblock shit to begin with. People think they’re just going to wave it around and spray it like Deep Woods Off. “Oh, I’ll just spray some on my chest, my one good ear and whatever lands on my back and I’m all set.” I guess this guy isn’t concerned about UV Rays blazing his face, neck, arms and legs? Maybe he’s got a cool plan to wear some kind of new shirt that only has two long sleeves and a ring around his neck that connects them.
In all fairness to Banana Boat, they did have the warning on the bottle, however, they forgot to be specific and mention not to stand next to your 600 degree Weber gas grill immediately following application. Anyway, for someone that doesn’t plan to sue, he sure is saying all the right things. “I’ve never experienced pain like that in my life” and “It was so scary I wouldn’t want to see it happen to someone else.” Those are the kinds of sweet statements that have some Law Vampires jerking off all over each other and Banana Boats financial records. I’ll make a prediction right now: This guy is going to be sitting pretty on a coconut-scented cash windfall very soon.
(UPDATE to our UPDATE: Thanks to our blog, they have pulled down the worst Jingle of All Time from the Captain Parker’s Web Site. For your listening pleasure, below is a completely different and better jingle about seafood, as sung by David Golden. Please visit David Golden Music for all of your jingle composition needs.)
Yarmouth, MA – I don’t understand how Captain Parker’s can have Award winning clam chowder for 70 years running, but only have a $300 jingle budget. Never has the phrase “you get what you pay for” been more true than with this horrendous song. To be fair to the asshole that sang this jingle to make his car payment, you can only do so much when you’re trying to rhyme “clam plate”, “great” and “Route 28.” But, jesus christ, did they record this in one take? “Alright everyone, our budget gives us the studio for the next 30 seconds, so let’s make this one count.” This song makes the Ernie Boch Jr. commercial sound like it belongs on Abbey Road.
Anyway, I’ve spent about $11,000 on various appeteasers and rum at Captain Parker’s over the years, but this jingle has me thinking I might take my chowder allowance elsewhere.
(Now, this is the best jingle you will ever hear about fried seafood)
Bonus Clam Chowder Recipe: (serves many, or one very big bowl)
Bring clams, potatoes and heavy cream to a boil and serve immediately.
Boston, MA – This is kind of a bittersweet blog for me today. On one hand, I’ve been very blessed to be an unpaid writer for Wicked Improper over the past 6 months. On the other hand, I’m going to quit when I get $3 million for the piece of toast pictured below. I always thought those people that saw images of the Virgin Mary in a window, or a picture of Moses on grilled cheese were full of shit, but not anymore. At first, the image on my toast startled me. This could finally be the proof I’ve been looking for after many blogs where I insinuated that Jesus could have been a gayer all along. At the very least, even the skeptics would have to agree that my Wonder Bread toast proves that he could have been Bi. Even though he was considered by most to be a mediocre carpenter at best, we do know that Jesus had a “special assistant” named Gregory that would tag along to job sites. There are historical documents showing the other carpenters filed several complaints against Jesus and Gregory for creating an uncomfortable work environment. As one carpenter claimed: “Yeah, I’m up on the fuckin’ scaffoldin’, and this fuckin’ queen Gregory is wearin’ a half cut t-shirt and tight shorts, wigglin’ his ass over the edge of Jesus’ chariot, sayin’ shit like ‘yoo hoo! Jesus! Almost time for lunch break’ and pretendin’ to put a broom handle into his mouth while his tongue pushes his cheek out. Hey, I don’t got time for this shit, I got a fuckin’ steeple ta build, ya know?”
Anyway, I believe that it’s Gregory you can clearly see creeping in from the left hand side of the toast.
This toast is for sale and the starting bid is $15. Please, no tire kickers or offers just to come look at the toast. Please forward this to as many people as possible as some of the proceeds from the sale are not going to charity. Serious inquiries only to: firstname.lastname@example.org.
Boston, MA and Saugus, MA (“Home of the Easy Chick”) – While it’s important for me not to disparage our partners, I will say based on my experience last night, if you eat too much fried food at Hooters, you could have a bit of anal leakage and wake up in bed feeling like you’re on a Slip n’ Slide. Last evening, we partnered with 98.5 “The Sports Hub” to bring you free Patriots tickets. All you had to do was kick a miniature football through a set of field goal posts using your fingers in a flicking motion. Some miniature Italian guy won, and he and his friends (who were all middle-aged), behaved just like how you’d think Italians would behave. You know Italians, very excitable by simple things, lots of hand motions that could be considered fist-pumping, and not a lot of multi-syllable words being used. Even though I was allowed to participate and I’m awesome at Flick Kick, I essentially threw the event because I found out the face value of the tickets were $70 and they were in section 399, Row ZZ, seats 99 and 100. They were literally the last seats in the stadium. The people in seats 97 and 98 will feel infinitely better about their viewing situation once they look back and see your sorry ass.
Anyway, before I bid you adieu for yet another round of slippery poopers, I’ll preface my “in closing” part with this: I understand what you get when you go to Hooters. The waitresses aren’t Road Scholars. But, when I said “Can we order 30 wings?”, my waitress said, and I am not fucking shitting you, “Sorry, but we only do them in tens and twenties.” So, in closing, she was a fucking idiot.
(The disclaimer below will make more sense if you say it fast like those guys at the end of a pharmaceutical ad.)
Disclaimer: Wicked Improper not really partnered with anyone. Wicked Improper not responsible if the hostess is an unaccomodating snatch. Do not order the “3 Mile Island” wings unless you want to evacuate your system like a runaway locomotive. Never wear nylons under your shorts. In fact, never wear nylons under any circumstances. Wicked Improper will stare at your tits if it wants to.
Somerville, MA (by way of Boston.com) – The owners of Saloon find themselves in a tough spot with today’s PR piece at Boston.com. When you open a bar in an area considered to be a hotspot, such as Davis Square, you are hoping (or most likely contacting) the local media to come visit to help announce your new venture. With an event of this nature, you have to be prepared to provide a memorable experience. Preparation is everything. Kind of like when you go in for a physical, and after the nurse has taken your blood pressure and leaves you alone, you spend the next 5 minutes doing jumping jacks and stretching your dick out so you can impress your doctor. With that being said, there is a limit to what you can ask your doctor to do for you under the terms of Doctor/Patient confidentiality. Maybe your doctor is different, but mine wouldn’t help me operate the slide weights on a standing scale when he walked in on me lying on the floor, attempting to weigh my own meat. As you can see, I take this preparation thing seriously, but at least I know he won’t be sitting around the lunchtable, joking around with the other doctors about my berries being all shriveled up.
Anyway, the food must be really really really really really good at Saloon, because they’ve gone ahead and employed a competent and mostly female waitstaff that, at the risk of sounding shallow, I wouldn’t put my ganoozle near. And who knows, maybe they wouldn’t want my slobgoblin near them, as I kind of look like if Fred Savage’s mother and a gargoyle had a baby. Does part of the bar-going and dining experience include viewing a waitstaff attractive enough that my ganoozle wants to peek over the top of the table to see what’s doing? Absolutely, otherwise, what are we doing here? $24 for a “half chicken under a brick” that I could make at home for $3 and it would taste so good it would knock the dick up your own ass? No thanks.
We’re guys. We go where the tightly bound awesome boobers and trimmed up poontanna is. The Hooterbots on Route 1 are awful, so I’ll see you tonight at Scoreboards in Woburn!
(Red, who do you like in the Jacksonville game?)
I can always tell when I get an old box of Junior Mints, the greatest candy on earth (lowfat since 1949!), because the insides are all hard and crumbly and not at all melt-in-your-mouthy like a fresh box is. Plus they don’t smell minty like a fresh box (sorry). My point is, why do halloween sized Junior Mints have to be stale immediately before halloween? Does the company save up those small boxes over the course of the year, anticiapting that kids will be too stupid to know the difference between fresh and stale Junior F*cking Mints?! Because I can tell the gd difference. And I want this stopped.