Boston, MA – I really hope you enjoyed your Easter! People grieve the death/murder of Jesus F. Christ in many different ways. Some people commemorate the death of their savior by eating a pig who’s been slaughtered and maple-cured. For me, I celebrated by spending the day doing some Easter sex, trying out new positions such as “Reverse-Disciple” (the person on top rides you facing the other direction while you both sing Psalms) and the “Dirty Bethlehem” (which is just your basic Titty F, but, you let your Brogurt cool down until it hardens and forms a little city.) We even tried to do “The Shocker”, but I think we were doing it wrong because Mrs. Munson could only get one finger into my dinkhole. It was more like “The Long, Slow Ouchie.”
Share some of your Easter stories in our comments section!
"Once you're done finding eggs, pull out my Easter beads"
Boston, MA – In all fairness, we felt it was appropriate to show something the ladies can enjoy. What better way to start off your Saturday morning bean smash than by looking at your favorite thing (besides the J. Crew catalog), the tightly bound boner. Women can say they like a full head of hair, a nice smile, a huge bank account, or a great sense of humor, but they secretly want us walking around with no underpants on and our helmets nearly ripping through our khakis. Or, do they…
This is a poll anyone can take (sure, pun intended.)
"Don't blame me, blame science"
Thanks to Johnny Mac and Joe for submitting entries. Keep them coming, one person will win the $20 gift card to Dunkin’s, the preferred coffee shop for illegal landscapers.
Boston, MA – Today is a sad day my friends. We kindly ask our male readers to fly your zippers at half mast this morning, unless you work with children. Wow, you talk about a complete reversal of helmet fortune. Can this possibly be the same Michelle Jenneke that wowed the entire earth with her little pussy taunting dance before the 100 meter hurdles? It saddens this blogger to officially report this appears to be yet another example of “good from far, but far from good.” I bet if you put a camera on me from a couple of hundred yards away, I would look a lot less like an unemployed Fred Savage, and more like Alcide from “True Blood.” For your review, here is the unfortunate pictorial timeline of gross events.
Here is Michelle warming up before her race.
Now, here is Michelle doing something else, and I am very much starting to not like it.
"Houston, we have a problem"
Now, here is the final picture I will ever post of Michelle on this blog. She’s dead to me. Either come out and dance with make-up on, or borrow a helmet from one of the chicks on the Fencing team and wear it while you run.
"Facelift, veneers and Boober implants, STAT"
Guys, take it from me, if there’s one thing I know it’s romance. The days of romancing your women with flowers, chocolates, fruit bouquets, glass dildos, and standing on her lawn with a tunebox over your head while wearing a pedophiles trenchcoat are officially over.
Here’s a new, creative idea simply using a leaf blower, a paint roller, and two rolls of toilet paper.
Women get turned on by men that take control, and what better way to dominate her than by throwing her a Charmin two-ply bukkake party? Instead of asking the question “Honey, are you almost done in there?” simply open the door and make a statement of fact: “Honey, you ARE done in there.”
Panties sopped? Check.
"God Closes a Door (Myra) And Opens A Window (6 Foot Tall Blond Jism Gobbler)"
Boston, MA – Tough break for that guy sitting behind Bob Kraft. We all know from past experience that he’s probably just in-between blinks or something, but instead of looking cool in the company of excellence in a photo that’s being widely distributed by the Associated Press, he’ll forever be known to his friends and colleagues as the guy that looks like he’s cumming all over the back of Bob Kraft’s searsucker jacket.
Anyway, some people will take issue with Bob Kraft putting his little Pat Patriot into his new galpal’s vagizzle while the dirt on Myra’s grave is still settling, but not Wicked Improper. Nosiree. That comes with the territory of having that much wealth. Pros: Young totally soaked pussy. Cons: Waiting 40 years for your wife to drop off, then being instructed by your PR team to wait 10 months before showing up in public with said young totally soaked pussy. The only person that should truly be upset is this chick’s father. No guy wants to think about his baby girl getting pounded on the reg by Bob Kraft. How is he ever going to watch another Patriots game? Every time they show the owners box, Bob Kraft will be reclined with this chicks head, covered by a white cloth napkin, bobbing up and down in his lap while Jonathan interrupts to ask Daddy for $20 so he can go to the Snack Bar. Perhaps it’s time for that guy to get NFL Sunday Ticket and pick a new favorite team.
Boston, MA – I apologize in advance if this has already been forwarded to you, but here’s a picture of my body hair in our bathroom sink. And, to squash rumors that this isn’t an authentic image, I made sure to include our cat, Nipples. Now, I know what you’re thinking: “What part of the body is that hair from?” That’s the hair from just one of my pectorals. I have a long way to go. Now, I know what you’re thinking again: “Does he shave ‘down there?” The answer is “of course”, and you would too if it added anywhere from 6 to 7 inches in length.
Please forward this link or image to everyone in your personal and professional network, via Facebook, LinkedIn, Twitter, Reddit, and Jizzbo. Also, be my friend on Facebook by clicking on my profile picture below and win a Wicked Improper bumper sticker!
"Click me to follow"
Boston, MA – Let’s talk a little bit about divorce today. Go ahead and take a guess at the number one reason people get divorced in America. If you said “because the wife got fat and the husband would rather bang a hot chick rather than closing his eyes and pounding away all night”, you’re very warm, but that’s not it. If you said “because the wife decided to reconnect with some guy that was a football player in high school and now he’s a Yoga Instructor, has his license to practice Reiki, and his Facebook picture shows him stretching with what looks like a haddock peeking at you from his shorts”, you’re getting hotter, but that’s not it either. No, friends, I’m sorry to report that the new number one reason people get divorced is because the romance has died. Guys, remember the first time you got romantic with that special lady? You’d do anything for her, like run down the hall in your underpants to the ice machine at the Red Roof Inn, just so she could put a few cubes in her mouth and experience the pleasure of giving your balls an arctic chill. You’d hang the “No Esta Disturbo” sign and wipe the tub down with Scrub n’ Bubbles. You’d cordially invite her to don the complimentary Red Roof shower cap so your launch wouldn’t destroy her hair. And when it was all over and you were finished sharing a can of Pringles, who was there to offer her Listermint strips? All of it was for her, in the name of romance, right? Well, that’s all gone now, because some asshole wrote a book called “Fifty Shades of Grey.” If you haven’t heard of this book, guys, it’s already too late for you. Put any seashell up to your ear this summer. I dare you. The sounds of waves crashing, and the ocean swelling, (and what scientists have proven is really just air being prevented from getting to your ear) is gone. All gone. From this one book. The new sound you’ll be hearing is 70 million clits simultaneously being flapped this way and that. You may actually drop the shell in horror and look about, wondering if your crops are being swarmed by locusts, but not to worry, your crops are fine. It’s just all the pussy that’s being swarmed by twitchy middle fingers. In the coming weeks and months, do not be surprised if you hear the reason for recent divorces is “Irreconcilable Bean Smashing.”
If anyone made it this far, let’s play the Wednesday Wouldya. Today we’ll go with the author of “Fifty Shades of Grey”, E.L. James, and decide wouldya or wouldya not bang her. Per usual, I’ll go ahead and start us off with the voting, so……drumroll…….I would. Yep, I know, shocker. Does she look like John Goodman with a wig? Sure, but I’m a huge fan of The Big Lebowski. I would, even though the bags under her eyes are so tired they have bags of their own. But, she’s the author of the hottest book on the planet, and the next guy to thrust it in better be ready to be compared to Christian Grey, an imaginary character with a thunderbolt for a dick that’s sopping panties all over our great Nation.
Boston, MA – Everyone remembers their first time doing love-make. For some of you, maybe it was with your high school sweetheart on the night of the prom. Or for others, maybe you found yourself under the bleachers near the football field, trying to tickle helmets with another confused boy scout. I’m often asked “Martin, what was your first time like?”, and if I had to sum up the experience with one word, that word would be “dry.” Obviously, I would have preferred a more slippery reception, but beggars can’t be choosers when the magic happens while working part-time in a nursing home.
Speaking of dry, let’s get ready for this weeks’ Wednesday Wouldya. Per usual, I’ll go ahead and start us off with the voting….drumroll…..I would. Yep, I know, shocker. But, if I could tag Hilary with four minutes of pure powerthrusting, I’d be able to cross “first lady” and “vampire” off my Fucket List. Now, guys, you know I normally don’t give out my bedroom secrets, but my signature dismount is guaranteed to drive that special lady in your life wild. Right after you hop off, take dead aim at her noggin, and just before launch inquire with your best English accent, “Pardon me, would you have any White Poupon?”
"It's my honor to be here today with Borat"
"Hearts, out. My dick, in."
Boston, MA – I’ve been saying this all along, guys, but if you want to make a woman’s panties sop, you only need to follow my free advice. That’s right, free. Why am I giving away my proven and indisputable “Keys To Unlock The Mysterious Poontanna” for free? Well, if I can make one of our readers’ penis take a vacation in something warm and humid (like hopefully a female’s ass or pussy and not some gayers gross, hairy, over-used bum), then I’ve done my job. What’s the number one thing that pushes a female towards blowing her Yoga instructor while you sit home and watch the Bruins playoff game tonight? Hint: The Yoga Instructor is better looking than you. What is the only weapon you have in your artillery to prevent this from happening? Your stupid brain, which, until today, has been primarily used to absorb homerun highlights on SportsCenter, make tee times, and how to cover your tracks after jerking off. We’ve all been there. She walks in “Why was there lotion and tissues next to the oscillating fan in the living room, and don’t tell me you were working on your model airplane again.”
So, try as they might to play hard to get, here’s a little naughty sexting with Mrs. Munson for your reading enjoyment. Something tells me she’ll be skipping Yoga tonight. Feel free to cut and paste some of my texting gold into your own rapidly changing sex life. You’re welcome.
Martin: This is me right now: 8=======D
Wife: you’re sick
Martin: you love it
Wife: no I don’t
Martin: here’s me and you. 8=======D - - - ~(:
Wife: Forget it
Martin: You better watch your tone, or I’ll get one of those surgeries that adds more equal signs so it’s like this 8===========================D, just like Kobe Bryant
Wife: I’m hanging up
Martin: You can’t hang up on text
Martin: Uh-oh, it’s angry now 8==========================================D
(to be continued)
Boston, MA – Top o’ the mornin’ to ya! Let’s have some fun today and drink responsibly as much as you possibly can. What better way to celebrate the death and resurrection of St. Patrick than with a photo contest? So, here’s how it works:
You submit a picture of the hottest Irish chick you see today (or any chick wearing green or with a stupid shamrock on her face), tell her it will be on Wicked Improper, and you will win $20 from me and $20 from Red. That’s a total value of $40. This is no joke, you’ve never made an easier $40, unless you work for the state making change in a toll booth.
So, you submit them to firstname.lastname@example.org or email@example.com, we’ll post the pictures and we’ll all vote. The winner gets $40. Simple.
Here’s an example of what it should look like:
"She's Swedish, but you get the point"
Boston, MA – Goodbye Brad Pitt. Goodbye Ryan Gosling. Goodbye Gaylor Tautner. Your careers as you know them are over. I used to waste my time projecting bitterness and jealousy towards these guys. Like, “Oh, word on the street in H-wood is that Brad has really bad acne.” Or, “I don’t know how Ryan Gosling gets a pass, his glass eye is constantly fixed on the horizon.” If you don’t believe me, please watch “The Ides of March” and try not to get motion sickness from watching his eye floating all over the fucking place. Once you see it, Ladies or Gayers, you’ll never look away, and his devilish little smirk will no longer make your panties or Beckham briefs sop like it once did.
Now, I know I’ve been beating this horse dead all week, but Channing Tatum is now “IT.” There is no denying it anymore. If you recall from our earlier blog, this guy not only has a ripped body, but it honestly looks like he has a Sea Otter living in his underpants. No more sleepless nights for me in early February waiting for Punxatawney Phil. From now on, if Channing Tatum’s dick comes out and sees its’ own shadow, you better keep your mittens and snow shovels at the ready. After seeing the picture below, any woman would be insane to get on her knees and prepare to service him, unless she wants to run the risk of being buried alive under a balls and cockalanche.
Quite frankly, I’m tired of listening to my wife tell me she rarely comes here because there are never any polls for women. So here we go, just for her, here’s a poll designed for our female readers. “But Martin, isn’t this a desperate attempt to have women forward the link around so your blog spreads like a Vagirus?” You bet your sweet ass it is.
"My Native American name translates to "Him With Angry Trouser Serpent"
(Thanks to Boston Sean for continual IT expertise, insight, suggestions and ideas that have been spot on every time. Also, sorry to Boston Sean that this “Thank you” had to come directly beneath Channing Tatum’s helmet)
"Oh, Herro Dr. Munson"
Boston, MA – With another Valentine’s Day come and gone, a few of you have written in to ask for my secrets to romance. “Martin, what can I do to get laid on the regular?” and “Martin, I pretended to listen about her day even though the story went very long but she still won’t put out. What gives?” The reality is, in order to keep women interested in 2012, you have to keep them guessing. You need to think outside her box. The same old thing just isn’t cutting it anymore. If you were predictable (again), with flowers, a card, and chocolates, chances are she reluctantly distributed her poontanna to you. So, to spice things up, here’s what I did Valentine’s Day morning. I got up early to hit the gym. When I got back to the house, I brought my Valentine a cup of French Vanilla coffee in bed, but I held the mug near my mid-section so as she reached for it, I simultaneously planted a subliminal message by thumping my junk off the back of her hand. Then, while she was in the shower, I snuck into the other room and put the boxer briefs I wore to the gym into her pocket book. I knew at some point later that day, she’d find them and be so happy I was thinking about her that she wouldn’t be able to resist the urge to press them to her face and inhale the unmistakable scent of 600 burned calories.
Also, periodically throughout the day, I left her sweet little voicemails with nothing but the sounds of my tongue rapidly licking up and down over my lips. And, like a virtual flip-book of love, I texted time-elapsed pictures of my private regions to tease her into a frenzy. In the first picture, the zipper was up. In the second picture, it’s halfway down. Then in the third picture you can see an obvious bulge, and, I don’t want to go into too many details here, but the fourth and final picture is a 3-D image of my rocket all lathered up with Jergen’s and an irresistible caption: “Guess what this is. Hint, it’s not a cruller from Dunkin’s.”
It has been my pleasure to share these with you.
Boston, MA – Let’s face it, it’s 1pm on Valentine’s Day afternoon, and you are absolutely fucked. You refused to place a $99 order for roses to be delivered by some Level 3 registered sex offender who probably rubbed his balls all over them and the card, and I don’t blame you. And, I don’t really see you getting into a pushing and shoving match over rotten $8 tulips with all of the Mexican savages tonight at the Market Basket. Why not use some of the ingredients you have in your home and make a bouquet for your Valentine? This will probably make me sound like a gayer, but I got the idea from a Shabby Chic magazine. Fortunately for me, I live close by so I was able to make my bouquet at lunchtime. Total elapsed time to construct? About 14 seconds. Total cost? $0.00. Thoughtfulness? Immeasurable. First, I julienned some iceberg lettuce, and jammed in some leftover thyme I found in the back of the crisper. Knowing that I needed to add a little color/contrast to this wonderful arrangement, I added a couple of baby carrots. Ideally, you would go with the color scheme of Valentine’s Day and put in a few slices of red bell pepper. To keep it looking fresh and alive, I poured some water in with that plant food shit they always add. Then I found a wonderful place in our home directly under a spotlight to showcase it in a small vase/juice glass. If you can somehow manage to pull off this romantic stunt, the only thing you will have to concern yourself with is following her around the house with a mop and deciding on which room(s) you’d like to be blown.
"Your results will most likely vary"
(Disclaimer: Wicked Improper not responsible for you not getting pussy tonight. Wicked Improper suggests you find an answer other than “but it’s 100% organic and sustainable” to the question “what the fuck is this supposed to be?” Wicked Improper understands your wife or girlfriend may not blow you if you give her a bouquet made of watercress. Do not add salad dressing as it may wilt the lettuce.)