Why do wife beaters refuse to button their shirts?
Also: NSFW
(would)
God Damn Me To Hell*
*This cube.
Nice thought...
…but if he really said this, I think we’ve forgotten that “everyone” means “everyone” and not “half of everyone.”
"It's Caylee's Liver! J/K, relax, it's just a muffin. OMG."
Boston, MA – Casey Anthony and her breasts are finally free to do whatever they want and look very good while doing it when the clock strikes 12 tomorrow night. She has spent the ENTIRE last year on probation for….drumroll….check fraud! You probably thought I was going to say something like ‘obstruction of justice’ or ‘lying to investigators’ about the disappearance of that little nuisance. Did she kill her kid? No she did not. You can sit there on your non-kid-killing high horse and cast your infant-killing stones all you want, however, a jury of her peers and the jury of my dick have found her not guilty. If she was a gross flat chick, I can almost guarantee you the jury, the media, and my dick would have cast her off to Gross Flat Chick Island for a lifetime of gross but hot pussy smashing. However, as you can see below, those perfectly mounted gravy bags were not meant to be caged. Everyone knows the old saying “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder”, and that is especially true when my eyes are beholding your C cups. Anyway, what is it about beautiful women that fills me with poetry? For your Wednesday morning reading pleasure, here is a poem I have tentatively titled “Casey, Your Freedom, Your Tits”:
She is hot, her body is tight, and she no longer needs a sitter this Saturday night.
Kids are awful, they get in the way, let’s meet at the Red Roof and let me hog bounce all day.
For no one shall know if they’re real and besides, who really cares you don’t lick the insides.
"Mouth, Then Breasts, Then Back To Mouth, Repeat"
Cape Cod, MA – Every guy remembers their first time. The first time you kissed a girl and felt butterflies in your stomach. The first time your dad gave you the keys to his car and said “there you go, kid. Try not to fuck up and kill anyone.” The first time a girl let you go to third base and you thought “why am I wasting time touching this thing when we could be at the base where my dick goes in her mouth?” I like that base. That one should be first. If that was first base, the other three really wouldn’t matter.
Anyway, This lame blog is brought to you in part by a stolen wifi signal in Dennisport where you can meet me and Red at The Sand Dollar today at 4pm.
P.s. This probably isn’t what that old snatch Betsy Ross had in mind when she stitched up that rag, but this is one flag I could salute from my swim trunks.
Boston, MA – In my opinion, perhaps the most evil person walking among us today, making stock trades based on information the general public is not privy to while you sleep and get ready for another workday making money for someone else’s company, is Nancy Pelosi. It’s difficult to imagine, certain members of your elected “officials” making money buying and selling stocks, after they’ve been informed behind closed doors that the “time is right.” That would be considered insider trading served with a side order of jailtime for you and I, but for them is not illegal. Hmmm. Oh well! At least you got to cast a vote that doesn’t matter. Let’s all pay $3.56 for a gallon of gas and sit in traffic as we rush to our cubicles. Better not be late! Don’t want to upset the boss! LOL. Boss of what, man? Boss of signing my timesheet? Fuck off. What a bunch of fucking idiots we are.
Anyway, do I think this image has been doctored? Yep. Do I care? Naw. I honestly don’t think the photoshopping is that far from the truth, and as a breast connoisseur, I believe Nancy has full C gravy bags (if not D’s.) If we’re going to have to put up with her $6 million a month taxpayer funded coast to coast flights, the least she could do is salute us by slapping those knockers together. Slap ‘em Nancy, you wanted the stage and now we’re showering you with our tax dollars, makin’ it rain all over dat pussy!
"I Vant To Suck Your Blood!"
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Boston, MA – It’s Friday afternoon, it’s 75 degrees and absolutely perfect out. And yet, here I sit at my desk for the next 4 hours. So you know what I decided to do? I made a decision, as a man (or a 15 year old boy trapped in this awesome grown specimen), and did a Google search from my work computer simply titled “awesome breasts.” I honestly no longer give a shit if the IT department knows, I don’t care if they notify management, and I don’t care if they show a pie chart of all the searches I’ve been doing in a company meeting. If anyone wants to ask, or come visit my cube, they simply may find me rubbing my balls with the business end of my stapler. That’s just how it’s going to be from now on. I’ll help everyone out and list out my last few searches now, to kind of quell the curiosity that’s building up.
1. tightly bound awesome boobers
2. how long should you wait before calling about someone’s life insurance policy so you don’t look greedy/guilty
2a. which countries don’t extradite to the U.S.
3. why does Blue Ivy look like Benjamin Bratt?
4. is it true that drinking coors light makes your pussy smell?
5. if a woman is sleeping on a plane is it against the law to use her hand to rub myself
5a. oh come on, even if I’m covered with a blanket?
It is completely natural to feel inspired after reading a blog I’ve written, so go ahead and do a raunchy search from your desk and dare them to come get you.
"This is the type of blog you get when my balls are full"
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Not Bard's wife. Also, not a real bat. Everything else is legit.
Kidding, it’s early. But folks, I have better things to do than tell you how Tim Wakefield can save the Red Sox season. (I don’t.) Statistics show that the Red Sox can count on multiple (ie greater than one) victories this year, but if this keeps up I’m just going to start posting the link to Tim Wakefield’s agent and leave it at that. But for the record, the starting pitcher, Daniel Bard, went 5 innings and allowed 8 hits and 5 runs, and as near as I can tell, he married his high school sweetheart (horrible mistake for a Red Sox GM or starting pitcher).
Now last year I think he only made around $500K, so I’m not sure I can compare him to the rest of those a$$holes in terms of value to the club. But Bobby Valentine, another person who’s job Tim Wakefield could do better for less pay, is fair game. Here’s what BV had to say about Bard’s performance:
“He pitched good enough to win if we scored some runs”
Bobby V, ladies and gentlemen!
Boston, MA – Tori Spelling, better known as “Aaron Spelling’s daughter” and “That girl on ‘Beverly Hills 90210′ whose father was the Executive Producer of the show” is pregnant again! YAY! According to a statement that she forced onto the mass media, Spelling said: “”Dean, Liam, Stella, Hattie, and I are beyond thrilled to announce that another little McDermott is on the way! We feel truly blessed that another angel has found us. Love, Tori xoxo!”
News flash, Tori, you’re not blessed or special because you took another load into your cervix and mashed all the ingredients together. You’ve done it before, it’s not that big a deal. You know what would truly be a blessing on this awful, overpopulated planet? Using some god damn common sense and giving birth control a chance, or having Dean pull out, dismount, and shooting rapid-fire at targets on the nightstand by quickly tapping his thumb over his helmet-hole, like any regular guy.
She literally just told People Magazine 15 hours ago “This pregnancy was one of the biggest shocks!” The fact that Dean’s penis got cleared (yet again) for Jism Launch into your womb and created another little Private Club brat does not a shock make. No, what would be truly shocking is if the baby comes out with some flava, looking like Kobe Bryant and its’ first words are beatbox noises.
"Real, fake, who cares, you don't lick the insides"
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Welcome to the “10 Years And Most Of Us Are Still Anonymous” tour! No one in the history of modern motion pictures has gotten more mileage out of f*cking an apple cobbler than these f-ing guys. I don’t have to watch this piece to know what’s going to happen. A few tired sex jokes by Stiffler, some reference to Jim’s naked sex dance from a decade ago, some band camp sex-with-a-flute stories, and some uncomfortable sexual tension between the fish stick and her nerdy boyfriend who literally (LITERALLY) hasn’t had a job since the last American Pie movie.
Spoiler Alert: It will suck just as much, probably slightly more, than the first one. But nothing sums up what you’re in for like the following two photos:
Then. (10 Years Ago)
Now. Oof.
"Lasko Fans, Cooling Down Your Balls Since 1958"
Boston, MA and In Between Someone’s Breasts – Good Morning Wicked Improper Reader! It’s gonna be 85 degrees up in this motherfucker today. Unless you’re smoking jays while doing Spring Clean-ups or hanging off the back of a garbage truck smelling like fish and seagull shit, chances are your employer won’t let you wear shorts to work. Of course, our seven female readers have no idea what it’s like for a guy to sit on his mashed up balls and taint all day long. I bet if you took poll on what was worse “Smelly Mashed Up Balls Stuck To Your Legs Under Your Khakis” or “Woman’s Period Cramps”, you’d probably have a pretty tight race on your hands.
If you’re someone that considers themselves well-prepared, like I am, chances are you’ve got a box fan under your desk right now, with a nice 8mph Southwesterly breeze aimed directly at your berries and nethers. Some of us become prepared with long hours of training, and others are prepared by natural instinct and awesome foreshadowing. For me, it’s the latter, and the turning point was when I was hazed as a boy scout. They stuffed me and another guy into a sleeping bag naked and filled it with vaseline to see who could be the first to escape. I won’t go into details, but let’s just say the reason I got out first is because I came prepared, and my opponent was more concerned with removing the pinecone I shoved up his ass. No one would high-five me, because I looked like Neo when he woke up in that pod in The Matrix, but I did earn my “Sleeping Bag Panic” merit badge.
Anyway, people don’t come here to learn about my life story, so let’s just do what we do best and look at these preposterous gravy bags.
"Proof that women don't need a head"
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*AHEM* (yep, would)
Washington Post, Sunday morning: Banners purportedly signed by one of Mexico’s drug cartels and hung in Guanajuato promise there will be no violence during next weekend’s visit to the state by Pope Benedict XVI, an official said Sunday.
Reuters, Sunday evening: Mexican authorities on Sunday found the severed heads of 10 people killed in a suspected outbreak of drug gang violence in a small city north of Acapulco. The heads were lined up on a street outside a slaughterhouse in Teloloapan, about 170 miles from Acapulco and about 155 miles south of Mexico City.
NY Daily News, Monday evening: Gunmen ambushed and killed 12 police officers who had been sent to investigate the beheadings of 10 people in southern Guerrero state, Mexican authorities said Monday. Another 11 officers were wounded.
Spring Break 2012 packages still available! Come for the sunshine, free booze, and naked co-eds! Stay ’cause you’re dead!
Aye, Lassie, I would!
I know that most people say Halloween is just an excuse for women to dress up like sluts and deliver sexual favors to marginal bloggers do things they normally wouldn’t. But that was almost half a year ago, and ’tis the season to break loose again. Santa Claus isn’t watching anymore, he’s on his 10 month coke binge and bangathon through Vegas, Aruba, and Amsterdam. So for all of our female readers, you have Red’s hearty approval to dress up like a wh0re and let loose tomorrow. And tonight. Remember, this opportunity only comes around twice a year. (Three times if you count the next time I give you approval, which will most likely be April Fools Day.)
Boston, MA – I really didn’t want to have to post this, but a bet is a bet. I am man enough to admit not only that I lost, but to settle a wager properly and fairly. I told Mrs. Munson we would have “hundreds to thousands” of Facebook followers by March 1st. It turns out, we have 28, and I think 17 of those are phantom accounts that I created so I could send anonymous hatemail. To her credit, especially now in hindsight, Mrs. Munson said we would not even have 50, and that includes her and her friends that have never ‘liked’ us. So, she wins, I lose, and in a sense, you also lose. I thought our wager was safe when we made it, and part of the bet was that if I lost, I would need to shave her first initial into my disgusting body hair and nominate myself for “Would You Flume This?” If she lost the bet, she was going to have to fly a cock-shaped kite at the beach this summer. That’s the really unfortunate part, that I was so certain of victory that I had already ordered the kite, complete with long black ribbons that kinda look like pubes hanging from the balls. I was going to invite all of you and have a clambake as she ran up and down the beach while we pointed and laughed, but now it’s ruined.
I know what you’re thinking, “Does the hair magically stop at the bottom of the picture?” and the answer is “unfortunately, no, it gets much worse.”
"Nominated for Worse Navel Ever!"
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p.s. Kite for sale. Email Martin or add a comment for more info.
Boston, MA – Today’s Wouldya is none other than the hardest working comedian in show business, Larry the Cable Guy. Just kidding, it’s Joan Rivers. This is a tough one, because over the years Joan has gone from looking “okay”, to “I would”, to “Let me think about it”, to “I’ll never tell anyone but I will answer anonymously in a blog.” I know that we’ve had some tough decisions over the past couple of weeks, what with the Hop-along, the midget, the pregnant methie, the chick that had her arm ripped off by a bear, among others. I didn’t plan on it, but now is as good a time as any to thank all of you for taking this weekly segment seriously. As you know, your honest answer is crucial to the integrity of the results.
Now, full disclosure, Joan is 78 years old, so this is no longer an automatic green light for anyone other than my Dad who reads this blog. As an elderly man himself, I know his type is currently set to “alive”, so I can all but guarantee he’s going to pull the trigger on “I would.” So, per usual, I’ll start us off and let you guys know how I voted….drumroll…..I would. Yep, I know, shocker. This one was a tough call, but I can’t pass up on the opportunity to love-make with a famous chick. And, all things considered, like, the three dozen surgeries, the face is holding up alright although I bet she’d have to steer clear of places that frequently have steam. Plus, after you’ve wrapped it up, she could confirm or deny notable events that have happened in history. The only thing that concerns me is that you can’t get a facelift on your hands, so if they’re all weathered and leathery it would probably feel and sound like you’re being jerked off by a scarecrow.
"iamsmiling...(slurp) IAM...imsmiling..takepichahquick"
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Boston, MA – Last night, my wife literally held me down and forced me to watch “Smash”, a ‘new’ show on NBC that she said is “like Glee, only for straight people.” Obviously, that wouldn’t normally be enough to get me to watch, but then she said “Katharine McPhee is on it.” Given the fact that she had me in a kimora choke hold, and the fact I still have a slight McPheever running somewhere around 101 degrees, I decided to give it a shot. Let me spare you vomit-inducing plot details and cut to the chase. Katharine McPhee grinds out on a chair and nearly masturbates with a makeup brush, undoes her blouse to expose a sick body (although her boobers are smaller than the Wicked Improper-approved C cups.) Of course, the writers couldn’t come up with an original thought, so I wasn’t completely blindsided when two gayers were laying topless in bed, giggling about the sex they just had. First it was Glee having the first on-air male on male kiss, now it’s Smash having two sweaty H-mo’s talking about their dicks wearing each other’s ass for a mitten, so it won’t be long now before some show pushes the brown envelope by having the silhouette of two dudes mock thrusting under a sheet. Still, we’re proud to be one of the first blogs to welcome straights, gayers, illegal aliens/undocumented workers, gmilfs, ‘tards, and fatties all under one blogdiggity umbrella. And now let’s play, “Would You Flume This?”
"Caution: May Cause McPheever"
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"Mysterious Orbs"
RALEIGH, N.C. (AP)— Two orange orbs, just about 10 feet off the ground, floated past Steve Woody and his father as they hunted deer more than 50 years ago. The mysterious lights passed them, then dropped down the side of a gorge in the Blue Ridge foothills. Whatever the explanation, tourism officials are hoping all those decades of unanswered questions add up to a boost in visitors making their way to scenic outlooks around Linville Gorge with the goal of spotting something mysterious.
The Blue Ridge foothills may be fooling Stevie and his old man, but not me. Piled high with Woodies, Tanned Orbs, High Beams, and Gorges – they’re trying to speed seduce you into coming down for a family vacation. I have nothing against a subtle marketing campaign, but in this case I think they’re not being aggressive enough. How about this: “Come down to North Carolina to fire your pump action shotgun into some (deer) tail, stay for the gargantuan t1t$.”
Boston, MA – I’m not really sure what it is, or why it is, but I just know that it is: I love looking at perfectly mounted gravy bags. And just when you think you’ve looked at a pair for the last time, oops, there you go looking at them again. That’s why it’s such a pleasure to bring you today’s “Would You Flume This?” Some of you will waste your time, trying to crane your neck to get a good look at her face, but I am telling you that it does not matter. The media would have you believe that the first thing a man looks at is a woman’s smile, or her eyes, or her hair. No. No. The first thing a man looks at is a woman’s breasts, unless he is a gayer then he is trying to spy on your penis in the showers at Bally’s (but that’s a blog for another time.) If you took an honest to goodness survey of all men and said “All in favor of mandatory breast implants of at least C cups, but with the caveat that we must cut off the woman’s head”, you would see 4 billion hands raised. Speaking of cutting off a woman’s head, I saw “Seven” with Red, and he was the only person who cheered at the end because he thought that was Gwyneth’s actual head in the box.
"Should I go put my goggles on?"
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Elin Grindemyr's plastic surgeon just gets it.
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I know. But still.
Well friends, it’s been a hell of a year. If you’ve stuck with me the whole way, you should have realized an APR of somewhere north of 15,000%, or something like that. What I’m trying to say is that I know my sh1t. And now, we’re headed for the biggest game of the year, unless you live outside of New England or New York, in which case wgas. But picking one game for the year is boring, and won’t pull in the nether regions of the country, and the bookmakers know this. So instead they sprinkle crazy bets, called “propositions” or “prop bets” all through the game to keep people from drifting off to youporn. So I’ve picked a few of those for you below, and added a Confidence Index – out of a scale from 1, Very Little Confidence, to 4, Supreme Confidence.
That’s it for now – if any juicy props come up, I will keep you posted. Also – if you are feeling anxious about any bets you’re facing, give me a shout and I’ll give you a Lock of the Week you won’t be able to resist.
Boston, MA and Between Those Two Gravy Bags – Good morning and welcome back to Wicked Improper. Today’s poll is for our male readers only, but certainly, if our female readers get some inspiration from the picture of these breasts, and their New Year’s Resolution becomes “Get perfectly mounted awesome fake boobers for 2012 so I look hot on the beach instead of being an unsightly, flat nobody that no one wants to talk to”, then I feel like we’ve done our job. Get them. They look good, they feel good, and before you say “ew gross”, remember, you don’t lick the insides.
"Would you both be my Valentine?"
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"I'll give you a hint who's not on the phone: Caylee"
Boston, MA – My patience for seeing those perfect round ones is wearing thin. If it would please our audience, let me give you a quick time line of events in Casey Anthony’s life. Born in 1986, Casey had her daughter Caylee when she was 19, which is old by Florida standards. However, the origin of conception was typical for romantic southern Florida: Getting pounded under a beer pong table by some guy. Here we are, some three years after Casey allegedly rid herself of that nuisance. No more “Mommy get me a snackie!”, no more Hannah Montana sing-alongs in the car (especially since you can’t hear the radio from the trunk), and no reason why Hugh Hefner or Larry Flynt hasn’t yet solved the pricing riddle to unlock those perfectly mounted fakies. Is the price $500,000? Is it $1 million? Here and now, Red from Wicked Improper pledges $100 for the release of those two sweater hams, and I, Martin Munson, pledge to match Red’s offer with my own $20. This Christmas, you can make a difference by pledging a modest donation or helping us collect 500 virtual signatures. After all, this is the season for giving, and it’s time for Casey to give us her tits.
To pledge a donation, or sign our virtual petition for Operation Expose Casey Anthony’s Boobers, please email:
