"I fashioned these money-free glasses out of a rock and some condor sh1t."
Good Morning America (and everywhere else): Daniel Suelo is 51 years old and …does he not have debt, a mortgage or rent, he does not earn a salary. Nor does he buy food or clothes. Home is a cave on public land outside Moab, Utah. He scavenges for food from the garbage or off the land. He bathes, without soap, in the creek.
In the fall of 2000, Suelo (who changed his name from Shellabarger), decided to stop using money altogether. His mission was to “use only what is freely given or discarded and what is already present and already running,” he wrote on his web site, Zero Currency.
Suelo wasn’t always a modern-day caveman. He went to the University of Colorado and studied anthropology, at one point considering medical school.
FUUUUUUUUUUCK Daniel Shellabarger. F*CK him. This guy says he doesn’t use money. Which is cool, do what you want. But don’t say that lack of money’s making you “more honest.” Are you wearing homespun cotton robes like Ghandi? No, you’re wearing clothes and a hat that were made by profit-making manufacturers. Just because you didn’t buy them with money doesn’t mean that money didn’t contribute to their existence. Ditto your fing website. Are you intuiting your thoughts onto the gd web through a connection of brain waves? No. You’re sitting at a computer (made by a “company,” gasp!) in your local Free Library (paid for, with money, by f-ing citizens of Moab or where ever), banging out masturbatory drivel (just like Martin and Red) that’s carried through high tech systems (Big profit making ventures) all over the world.
The biggest lol is that this kid went to CU and was “at one point considering medical school.” Guess what, living in the Peoples’ Republic of Boulder takes money. And I can guarantee you two things about every silver-spooned idealist who went through those very expensive doors: At one point or another, between bong rips and mushroom raves (no judgment), every single one of them 1) contemplated medical school and 2) thought they were Siddhartha.
Beverly, MA – Well, we’ve all heard the phrase “too soon” but I heard the China Jade in Beverly is honoring the cop that was shot by offering “Balls Blown Off Soup.” For a limited time only, the Jade will offer traditional Chinese meatball soup, but to pay homage to his missing testicles, the soup contains no meat. There’s been a lot of speculation, accusations of adultery, or if the two cops involved were maybe gaying off, but the reality is, two young boys no longer have a father, and that’s a tragedy. Fortunately, as with every tragedy, there’s a little bit of comedy involved. For example, when the time is right and his empty pouch has settled down from all the excitement, the taxpayers of Massachusetts are going to have to pony up for this guys’ ball implants. You may soon sit down across the table from your H&R Block representative and field the question “Would you like to donate an ironic ‘two’ dollars to the Lantych Ball Fund?” Regardless of what occurred in the private lives of everyone involved leading up to this event, let’s face it, we’ve all done things we aren’t too particularly proud of. At times, as humans, it is totally normal to be overcome with feelings of guilt and shame. Kind of like the time I didn’t have a condom with me, so I tried to use a shower cap that said “Red Roof Inn” printed on it. I won’t go into details, but it was not what you would consider a snug fit. Or how about when you stretch your dick out for a few minutes when you’re alone before a physical to impress your doctor when he comes in? Of course, some of you may remember the blog where I admitted to having my doctor walk in to catch me laying on my side, trying to weigh my meat on his floor scale. I’d like to take this opportunity to ask our readers to admit something they’re not too proud of in our comments section. The truth shall set you free, and it will also allow us to laugh at you.
Dolphin: "If you look behind my dorsal fin, you'll find a card for my friend who's a plastic surgeon. If you want to work SeaWorld, or even meet a guy, you're going to need fake mounted C bombs"
Boston, MA – We understand that people can’t ’like’ certain things at Wicked Improper on Facebook, which is just one of the many reasons we went with this double-secret blog title. The real title is “Please Sign Our Virtual Petition For National Shave Your Balls Day.”
Guys, can you picture putting one (or more) hairy balls into your mouth? No way, right? Then why should your lady friend put them in there? I had a very in-depth conversation with a friend, you know, just a couple of scholars talking on Xbox Live, going over what it could possibly feel like to gobble on a hairy ball. He was like “it’s probably just like a kiwi fruit” and I said “yeah, maybe, but a kiwi fruit never smells like a poorly assembled nacho plate and doesn’t serve as a vessel for a half a pint of 98.6 degree jism.” Per usual, I was the winner of yet another very quick argument. So, we agreed there should be a “National Shave Your Balls Day”, the only problem left, where we need your help, is to decide which day on the calendar it should fall.
I was thinking 9/11 would be perfect, because everyone is walking around that day going “Never Forget” and I’ve always been thankful for that to remember items on my to-do list that would typically escape me. Quite frankly, I’ve been a bit put-off by the decade of negativity surrounding 9/11, so if part of being positive, free, and fighting back against terrorism is shaving our berries down to smooth little dumpings to make them more receptive for draping on someone’s chin or forehead, then you go right ahead and call me a Patriot. The only drawback I can think of for using 9/11′s “Never Forget” to serve as a reminder to shave our balls is that we’ll need to be reminded again on 9/18.
(Note: This poll is suitable for readers over 18, including women and gayers)
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.”
Woman’s Day: Is Your House Making You Fat? Discover how your home could be causing you to pack on the pounds… did you know that many reasons those stubborn pounds won’t budge may actually be inside your own home? Whether the type of plates you use is causing you to eat more than you realize or your bedroom isn’t letting you catch enough zzz’s, learn how your house may be sabotaging your weight-loss plans.
Listen gang. Martin and I are here for really nothing else but to make you better people. That’s it. We could be doing 100 other things, but we choose to spend our time on your improvement. So if some miracle cure comes along that allows you to lose weight while you surf porn sleep, great. And I’m all for those little tricks that keep you in line. But tricks are maybe 10% of the solution, and miracles don’t happen unless you’re a Giants fan.
People are going to read this article and think “Oh, my drinking glasses are too short (YES), that’s why I’m 80 pounds overweight.” If you’re fat, you’re fat because you’re fat. It wouldn’t matter if you started drinking out of a test tube, you’re going to have to stop looking for excuses for your fatness and just get after it. There, I said it.
"It was Apps like this that ultimately killed Steve Jobs"
Boston, MA (the only city of note in New England) – For those of us more fortunate, the iPad2 offers about a gabillion apps for varying interests. As you can see above, the apocalypse draws even closer as there is now an App that lets you keep track of your dumps. Ladies and Gentlemen, introducing Bowel Mover Pro (Digestion Journal), where you track your water intake, your stress level, and your daily movements to see how things are going for your asshole. And, since we share everything else with our phony network of friends, you can even ‘like’ a dump on Facebook and you can tweet the results. They should probably call that “shweeting.” You want to see an example of a message on Shwitter?
This is not a game, like Poops vs. Zombies, where you try to hurry all of the turds into the bowl before the zombie maids make their way to the bathroom. This is for real. Someone with actual knowledge of a computer programmed an app to let you put a GPS on your shits, and 13 assholes, literally, felt the app was worthy of four and a half stars.
This is probably why Steve Jobs died. There were varying reports about what his last words were. Some insiders claimed his last words were “Oh wow. Oh wow. Oh wow.” Others claimed he said “Tell all the Droid users that Google stole proprietary software from Apple to create the Android software, so, basically, they’re all a bunch of fucking thieves” and then used his last breath to whisper “macintoshhhhhhh.” We may never know his exact words, but I don’t think it’s unreasonable to suggest it was something like “If they ever come out with an App that synchs with your bowels, I’ll probably just let the cancer take me away, like Calgon.”
He also eschewed other manufacturers from trying to piggyback off the iPad’s success. “The Kindle Fire is a wonderful tablet, but, compared to the iPad2, it’s nothing more than a tampon with WiFi.”
Daily Mail: A high school student killed himself by jumping off a cliff as his mother and sister helplessly looked on in horror. Witnesses said John Albrigo, 18, ‘flew off the cliff like a bird’ after talking to them for hours about his depression and having ignored pleas from his desperate mother Rosemarie.
He plunged 250 feet to his death at Palos Verdes Estates, Los Angeles after thanking a police officer, who responded to a 911 call, for his help and saying he had ‘something to do’. He told them his name was Jesus but later admitted it was John…and talked about his struggles with depression and problems with his father.
‘He said: “I’m in so much pain that I have to take my life. There’s nothing I can live for. At 11:11 I have to take my life,”‘ Ms Ecker said.
‘He was the most charismatic, delightful, energetic, spiritual person. He quoted biblical passages and loved talking to the girls.’ Ms Ecker said John continued to talk with the girls about his spiritual beliefs including a notion that he was the ‘chosen one’.
‘He had a happy glow. He went off the edge like a bird and fell flat on the rocks.’ Ms Ecker said John took cellphone pictures of himself before jumping. ‘It was a very premeditated suicide. I think we delayed it,’ she said. ‘He seemed quite determined. I think he suffered from depression. He was lost. He definitely didn’t want to live.’
For a window into Red’s soul, let me tell you that I burst into laughter at “he flew off the cliff like a bird,” and I hit a f-ing fevered pitch at “fell flat on the rocks.” But this guy’s story started unravelling towards the middle.
I totally get the “Chosen One” thing. It’s normal for most everyone to go through that phase (spoiler alert: you’re not Jesus either), but then to later admit to the cop that you’re not god’s son? Bad show. You have to keep in character throughout, or you’re going to have people questioning your convictions. Although I think that bullsh1t from his mom about his “happy glow” right before he dashed his brains out on the rocks like Piggy from Lord of the Flies might tell us a little about where he was getting that line of bullsh1t from…
Speaking of his mom, who refers to girls as “the girls?” Is that a euphamism for something? It sounds as if she pictures all females as some opposite sex entity like The Borg. And, sorry, quoting scripture to The Girls? Dude, you are doing it totally wrong. I’m beginning to think that his issues were not with his father at all.
What finally broke my support for this guy was his choice of suicide time. 11:11? How f*cking dramatic can you get? The mom could’ve talked him out of it with some tough love. “John, you’ve decided to kill yourself, you’re at the edge of a 250-foot cliff, you’ve got a warm glow all about you, and I think you’re Jesus which means I’m the Virgin Mary. So get on with it, kill yourself and get it over with. Enough with the f*cking theatrics.” Then she walks away, he realizes what a d1ck he’s being, and he goes back to trying to bang The Girls using vague lines about submitting to the one true god, with your mouth. End of story.
Daily Mail: A mother-of-two, who thought it was ‘impossible’ to lose weight on her own, has told how she lost six stone purely through exercise after, unbeknown to her, her gastric band snapped. Karren Knight, 47, who tipped the scales at 22 stone, had spent years dieting and in a final attempt to conquer her weight problem saved up £3,500 for invasive surgery. Following the operation, in which she had a gastric band fitted around her stomach to restrict her appetite, she took up dancing to distract her mind from binge eating and was delighted as she noticed her body slim down. “I’d advise anyone who is considering weight loss surgery to really think twice about it. I didn’t realise how dangerous it could be, and as it turns out, I didn’t really need it to lose weight.”
Ok. Let me get this straight: 1) No exercise + years of fad diets = still fat. 2) Exercise + no binge eating = Not still fat? Ok, ok, she’s no Jennifer Nicole Lee, but I think it’s safe to remind everyone that Martin and I have been doling out fitness tips like these for some time now. We are here to help.
Boston, MA – Everyone’s favorite legitimate news source, Boston.com, is running a discussion today about the best places to kiss in Boston. They want you to click on “What’s your favorite smooching spot?” to submit your own, so I went ahead and said “on the privates.”
Visit Boston.com to see some nice places to put your tongue into someone else’s mouth at Boston.com
Or, choose from one of our favorite places to smooch:
Boston, MA, but this story originates in Norway (a subsidiary of Swiss Miss, Inc.) – Do you remember that complete psycho that went haywire in Norway, blowing up a city block and then killing innocent children on that island retreat? Actually, people always say “innocent children”, and while no kid deserves to die like that, you have to know there must have been a couple of assholes in that group. Anyway, while all of that chaos was going on, there was one man that simply refused to give up on his workout. While you or I could cancel a visit to the gym due to a chance of flurries, Cameron Leslie of New Zealand continued benching a shitload of weight, despite the fact the structural integrity of the facility he was in had been compromised by C4 explosives. When cinderblocks, broken glass, and bodies are flying around the gym and you’re still counting your reps, that’s when you know you’ve taken your workouts to the next level. This is not a dramatization, this complete douchebag is a real person.
(Note: We did not alter the video with the awful quotes that pop up.)
Can’t get enough Cameron Leslie? Get yo’ remix on!
I saw a PSA yesterday about something or other, I think making sure you plug in your carbon monoxide detector so your kids don’t end up like Vitas Geruliatis, which is a total bartman. It got me thinking – there are all kinds of PSAs out there to remind parents to do something for their kids to make them better people, like make them drink milk (brought to you by your friends at the National Dairy Council!), or look both ways before you cross the road so you don’t turn into a real-life game of Frogger (brought to you by your friends at Michelin!). First Ladies have taken up lofty causes like the war on drugs (Nancy “Oh sh1t, Ronnie’s naked on the lawn again!” Reagan), literacy (Laura “I’ll bet she was a beav back in the day but the elder Bush (CIA) had all old photos burned” Bush), and childhood obesity (Michelle “I’m not proud to be an American unless you elect my husband” Obama).
Yep, no shortage of messages out there telling you about what a horrible parent you are for not giving your kids one thing or another. Except I never see one biggie that I think would cover all of the others, and I mean ALL of them. I’d like to see a PSA from someone, somewhere, saying “Hey, if you don’t want a generation of fat,drunk, stupid layabouts lying around in the street protesting something, try a little tenderness f*cking discipline. It’d resonate especially well during the holiday season. I’m not talking Old Testament (capped!) fire and brimstone stuff, just your simple, basic “the buck stops here” kind of thing.
“Is your whiny brat executing a perfect boneless chicken in the aisle of Toys*R*Us because you refuse to get him the latest $800 app machine from Apple? Pick him up by the scruff of the gd neck and march him right the f*ck out of the store, NOW.”
“Did little Suzie “forget” that she had homework over the weekend, but remember on Sunday night at 8pm? How about turn the f*cking television off once in a while?”
How about a firm response to the common childhood refrain “THAT’S NOT FAIR!!!” You don’t have to punch them in the face, but at least ask them who exactly promised them a “fair” go of it?
Maybe if we all got behind THIS public service announcement, we’d start building a generation of hard working, literate, conscientious people who strive to improve themselves and their lives every day, instead of this rabble.
Boston, MA – If we can talk about something other than Penn State and how loose lips sink ships for a minute? With the Holidays approaching, we’d like to remind everyone there are only 51 shopping days left until Christmas and however many are left until the 12 days of Yawnukkah. I know the meaning of Hanukkah must have something to do with antagonizing children, because Jewish people like to spread out their presents, so it’s one gift a day whether you like it or not. Don’t bother throwing a tantrum you little jerk, you get the one present and if it’s socks, go put on a puppet show and dream that tomorrow may bring Modern Warfare 3. Although, if I was a Jewish Santa, like Kris Kringlewitz, I would probably wait until the 12th day to give the best gift just to fuck with that little ingrate. Kids always start warming up to the idea that it’s time to behave around December 1st, but the rest of the year it’s 11 months of foot-stomping, arm-folding, pouting, and just exhibiting really poor table manners.
Speaking of manners, let’s talk a little bit about your behavior at the mall this shopping season. Last December, outside Macy’s at the Burlington Mall, this 60-something year old calculating Snatchosaur saw my directional on, but pulled into my spot anyway. I remember thinking to myself “Well, this entree of the true spirit of giving would be best served with a side dish of respect for my elders. Let’s smile and exhibit some patience while we drive around for another 20 minutes listening to non-stop 24 hour Christmas music on 105 point fucking 7.” I ended up parking at Denny’s on the other side of 128, about a 45 minute walk. On my way to Macy’s, I had just enough of a workout going where I stopped by that woman’s Audi (what else) and rubbed my sweaty taint all over her door handle. I put a note under her windshield wiper that said “If you’re reading this in your car right now, there has never been a better time to apply hand sanitizer.”
Please remember what the Holidays are all about. Let these kids show you how we should all treat each other as human beings.
(After official review, Number 5 came in second place, finishing about .2 of a second behind the other five first place finishers. He was issued a second place ribbon and was rightly excluded from the Champions Dinner, while the other competitors all took the top spot on the podium and received gold medals filled with chocolate. Number 8 could have broken the world record in the 30 yard dash, but she stopped for that clumsy asshole as a way to say “Hey, we’re all in this together,” so remember that this shopping season before you end up with stinkhand.)
Boston, MA - At a recent Saturday Broga class, there were no chest bumps, no crude talk of the opposite sex, no loutish stereotypes that could be culled from a Vince Vaughn film. In a yoga class dubbed Broga (a blend of the words “bro’’ and “yoga’’) such behavior would seem to come with the territory, but surprisingly it does not. Just two days earlier, Broga cofounder Adam O’Neill was downing beer at Legal Harborside and throwing around the phrase “getting into the bro-zone’’ to describe the yoga program that he and Robert Sidoti devised to attract hesitant men to the world of yoga. Sidoti sends out dude-friendly tweets like: “Get with the Bro-gram’’ and “Stop bro-crastinating.’’
How long until we hear these two are giving Brojobs and splashing Brogurt all over each other? I thought we’d heard the last of adding “Bro” to something when I officially declared the use of Brocabulary dead back in 2010. This guy is sending “dude-friendly” tweets like “get with the Bro-gram”? Hold on one second while I check to see how many Twitter bros this Bromo has. Oh, okay, only 30 followers. While I’m glad to see they don’t have thousands of followers, I am somewhat saddened that we only have 17 followers, 8 of which are pornbots.
Follow Wicked Improper on Twitter by clicking here: Saynotobroga
Daily Mail: Don’t feel too flattered if your partner starts losing weight – it might be for somebody else. People who suddenly start fighting the flab while they’re in an apparently steady relationship are secretly preparing to drop their other halves, a study claims. Happy couples don’t worry about their expanding waistlines because there is less pressure to look attractive, sociologists claim.
So to recap, here is scientific* proof that if you and your spouse are fat, you’re probably happy. If either one of you is skinny, you’re unhappy, you’re probably a bad person, and your wife is d1cking around with some other dude. Don’t kill the messenger, it’s all right there in black and white. You know what this is? It’s racism against skinny people.
I myself am not a very hefty guy. When I go shopping, it is LITERALLY impossible to find pants that fit me, because I’m also a shade over six feet tall. They sell pants for guys who are four feet tall and have a 47 inch waist, but for me, go eff yourself, you skinny b@stard. Same goes for dress shirts. Arms? Long. Neck, pencil thin. Suits too. Any more, you’re more likely to find a suit that would fit a 400 pound twelve year old than to find a 40-long. When I cinch up my belt on a pair of jeans, I look like a depression-era hobo, minus the dusty fedora.
But I’m not here to wage war on the apparel industry. They have to make a living like everyone else, and it’s a simple matter of statistics. If they look out on the horizon and realize that there are more barrel-shaped fatties than guys who, for Halloween, dress up like swizzle sticks every year, well so be it. But I would like to do battle with society. Because when I walk down the street, I am positively NOT allowed to point out people who are fat. I’m not allowed to give them a second look, I’m not allowed to secretly wonder if manufactured sweeteners like aspertame and phenylalanine might be kind of a bad idea, and I’m certainly not allowed so say “Wow, you are one fat f*cker!”
But it doesn’t work the other way around, does it? At cocktail parties, people I’ve never met will walk up to me and say with disgust: “You’re so skinny!” As if last week I weighed two bills but Charlie Sheened my way into the next Crypt Keeper role. They also point out that I’m so lucky to be too thin to find clothes that fit me. Hello? Lucky? I run or lift weights or swim three or four times a week, maybe you should try picking up a dumbbell instead of a HoHo once in a while, porky. (Actually I will admit I do eat pretty much whatever I want, that might be luck of the draw.) But whatever the motivation, people have absolutely no problem calling me skinny. Not “sinewy.” Not “thin.” Not “normally weighted for a man of my height, in 1950.” If “skinny” and “fat” are two sides of the same coin, then how come perfect strangers can openly call me out because I look like Icabod Crane, but I’m an a-hole for pointing out that the woman sitting next to me in the airplane is spilling into my seat?
"Elisabetta Fantone is so hot you didn't even notice the basket was empty"
Salem, MA – If you’re planning on visiting Salem, MA tonight, get ready for boing alert. Waves upon waves of 18 year old (give or take) hotties all trying to out-slut each other in naughty maid, horny nurse, and filthy cheerleader get-ups. “But Martin, it’s going to be 38 degrees out.” I know. But, they, don’t, care. And, “neither do I.” It’s worth it to see all of the nearly exposed boobers and high stockings, with mini-skirts and tight boy shorts, and, oh jesus you KNOW this is the year it’s going to be Yoga Pants City. “But Martin, aren’t you afraid that your wife is going to read this blog?” Yes, I, am. “Are you willing to take the risk by admitting you’re going downtown not for the spirit of Halloween, but because you want to see hot 19 year old ass?” I’m, not, too, sure.
(Disclaimer: Wickedimproper.com does not condone extra-marital affairs, ashleymadison.com, the Craigslist ‘casual encounters’ section, anonymous teabagging, or Rub and Tug operations. Rub and Tug operations that work hand in hand with Police departments to entrap would-be handjob seekers are very sneaky, and we frown upon that. Be advised that you cannot plead “come on, it’s not fair” during your arraignment for something that feels good for $50 (does not include tip.)
The Telegraph: Happiness is U-shaped … which explains why the middle-aged are grumpy. Happiness follows a U-shaped curve during a person’s lifetime, according to research showing that middle-aged people are the unhappiest.
Everyone knows that scientific studies are hilarious excuses for PhDs to rationalize their desires to get stoned and hit on co-eds. And this one is a doozy. Face it, this guy took a smiley face and made up an ironic study about unhappiness with it, and you can bet he’s the envy of his bookworm friends. “You’re going to ‘prove’ that middle aged people aren’t as happy as 25 year olds? And they’re going to pay you for it?!”
Regarding the conclusion, no sh1t, your middle ages suck. But U-shaped happiness curves don’t explain why middle agers are unhappy. Mortgages explain that. Dealing with management. Eating your d1ck on a huge work presentation. Getting fat. Waking up early. Figuring out that you’re going to die in your cubicle some day. Hearing “Huh…” from the doctor during a rectal exam. All of those things.
When you finally come to terms with the fact that college-aged girls do not find you attractive in the least, that you’ll never retire, and that you’re more than halfway to death, you start back on the upswing. You become resigned. But until then, pucker up, because it’s going to be a long ride. All downhill.