Why do middle-class white women think Beyonce is so great?
It's a mystery. I think it's because she's so POWERFUL. Every female artist now has to be empowered, and every pop song has to be some anthem with a title like "Survivor" or "Roar" or "Brave" or "I Never Liked You Anyway, John Mayer." It's bizarre, given that there's never been a group of people more empowered than the current generation of Americans. Your average Katy Perry fan is a 12-year-old suburban girl whose dad has already given her a down payment on a new Land Rover. What the fuck do you need to be empowered for, lady? If anything, you have TOO MUCH power. Just look at that Kelly Clarkson song "Stronger" that contains this lyric...
Thanks to you, I'm finally thinking about me!
Yes, because self-adoration has always been a problem with the current generation of young Americans. Thank God someone is finally telling them to like themselves. This is all a giant conspiracy by BIG BUSINESS. They produce the pop song that tells you that you're a special little snowflake that deserves the best in life, and then they sell that song at a WalMart or in the iTunes store so that you can buy it along with $5,000 worth of other pointless merchandise. It is a TREAT YO SELF economy, and Beyonce is one of the most valuable spokesladies on behalf of it.
If animals could talk, do you think more people would date/marry their pets?
Probably. There's already a significant "crazy pet owner" population in this country—people who will dig a switchblade into your eye if you happen to point out that their dog should be on a leash inside the Baskin Robbins. So it's not exactly a stretch to think that people who already consider their pets to be lifetime companions would take it a step further if oral communication were introduced. Birds can talk, and I don't even want to know the number of Floridians who have probably tried to jam a parrot up their ass just because Polly could holla back whenever they walked in the door.
HOWEVER, I think part of the reason that people love their pets so much is specifically because they can't talk. You can yap all day to some fucking dog and the dog won't cut you off or disagree with you or beg you to shut up. It'll just sit there and pant and you can pretend that it empathizes with you when all it wants is a teaspoon of peanut butter. It's a simpler relationship than the ones we have with other humans. People construct a deep relationship with their pet out of that silence. If your dog could talk, you might argue with it more. You might grow to dislike it more than you ever would if it had just kept its trap shut. People might be more prone to marrying or fucking their dogs if they could talk, but they also might be more prone to killing them or giving them away. Imagine going to the dog pound and hearing every fucking dog there talk like a homeless person. You'd never rescue some doggie hobo. It's right to the injection room for him!
By the way, if cats could talk, they'd say FUCK YOU all day long, so no one would own them, let alone marry them.
How many average adult males would it take to beat Adrian Peterson at tug-of-war?
Three or four. It's no small ability to have double or triple the strength of the average human. So even though I'd like to think—particularly as a homer—that it would take 10 men to pull a world class athlete like Peterson into the mud, it probably wouldn't take more than a few. To singlehandedly beat even two guys at tug of war is mighty impressive.
By the way, tug of war sucks. It's humiliating. It destroys your hands. And everyone spends hours negotiating who gets to be anchor.
Do you think that country leaders (presidents, rulers, etc) use email to communicate with one another? Does Barry O start his day by logging into Outlook and opening emails from "Vladimir.firstname.lastname@example.org"?
For security reasons, the answer is probably no. It would be too easy for those emails to fall into the hands of Eddie Snowden or some other GLORY BOY leaker. And it would be too easy for a President to email a joke that translates poorly ("Hey Vlad, I'm gonna c— in your sister's c—-!") and ends up starting World War III. These international communications are remarkably delicate. There is a ceremony and phrasing to every interaction that requires months of planning and strategy. You can't blow that all by opening up an email exchange and letting the President send Putin links to I CAN HAZ CHEEZBURGER. Something would go wrong. I bet Putin's sarcasm translates poorly in text. "Let's kill ALL the dissidents HAHAHAHAHA."
Thus, most communication between first world leaders has to take place over the phone or even in person, at great expense to the taxpayer. It's better this way, frankly. If you meet someone face to face, you're much more likely to get along with them and see things from their perspective. If Presidents only used the Internet to communicate, they would end up bombing Russia just for the LULZ.
Is it rude to ask your peers how much money they make? I graduated from college last May and just started my first real person job last week. Since news has been getting around about me starting work, I have been getting a lot of people asking how much money I make.
They have? That's crazy. It's rude as shit to ask people what they make. If everyone knew how much money everyone else made, we'd all end up killing each other. Look at pro athletes. Everyone knows exactly how much money they make, and all it does is breed resentment in the fan and anger in the player because fans are resentful. You shouldn't ask other people what they make because you will IMMEDIATELY regret the answer. Either they make way more than you and now you hate them, or they make way too little and you feel hopeless for your future prospects. There's no good answer. It's strictly a DON'T ASK DON'T TELL situation.
Hell, in a lot of countries, it's rude to even ask people what they DO. That's the number one thing I gotta hear from snooty foreigners and snooty Americans who just came back from fucking Europe. "Oh, in France, they don't ask people about their jobs. It's horribly rude." Well, excuse me for trying to find one goddamn anchor for a polite conversation. What else am I supposed to ask people at a cocktail party, how much child porn they own? Don't be ridiculous. Anyway, don't ask people what they make. That's a dick move.
I'm moving in with my girlfriend, which is mainly a good thing. However, the move itself is a huge problem for a very specific and kind of gross reason. I have a queen-sized mattress that we're going to bring into her place and store away and I'm very worried about moving it. Reason being, I used to date a girl who would SQUIRT every time she had an orgasm, meaning one side of mattress is stained with the dirty ghost of love-making's past. So I should just flip the mattress over and hide that side, right? WRONG! The other side of the mattress is stained with period blood left behind by a friend-of-a-friend that I allowed to stay in my room while I was for a short period of time. What do I do?
The obvious answer is to get a new mattress. But mattresses are expensive! And it takes a long time to break one in so that it has just the right amount of curvature and/or dried smegma!
I think you can probably pass off both the blood and the old vaginal drippings as your own bodily fluids. Your girlfriend isn't a forensic scientist. You can't just look at some dried stain and know immediately that it came from some kind of mutant clitorical fountain. If you blush and get embarrassed and say it's an old pee stain, she'll probably believe you. Of course, she'll just make you buy a new one anyway because EWWW I DON'T WANT TO SLEEP ON YOUR PEE EWWWW.
Moving in with a woman means finding out that you are in for a lifetime of buying very expensive replacements for things you didn't know you had to replace. She'll make you replace the mattress, and the chairs, and that coffee table you liked, and your couch (it simply won't do), and your car, and your apartment. The rest of your life will be a desperate chase to pay for upgrading all of the things she wants you to upgrade. ENJOY!
Who do you think got laid the most during their primes:
- 60s/70s rockers (Led Zep, Stones, The Who)
- 80s metal bands (Mötley Crüe, Def Leppard)
- 90s/00s rappers (Dre, Tupac, Biggie)
- Boy bands from any era (NKOTB, NSync, Bieber)
My first guess would be the '60s and '70s rockers because of that era's casual attitudes towards venereal disease and/or birth control, but come on now. I don't think either of those things have stopped Justin Bieber from nailing every last inch of Brazilian hooker trim he can get his delicate little hands on. They're ALL historic pussy hounds, and I doubt that one group wildly outpaces the other. Even some random guy from Third Eye Blind probably did all right for himself. It's all about your standards and how much your appetite can handle. I've always wanted to believe that the manlier your music is (Josh Homme for President!), the greater amount of tail you're able to pull in, but that's a lie. Glen Campbell was a freak. And even John Mayer gets his. As Eddie Murphy said, "Just sing. That's the key to it."
What if the rings in MMA fights were bigger than they are now? What if the ring was hundred feet wide and long? What would happen? What could guys do at a full sprint?
You wouldn't want that. Guys can still get up a decent head of steam in the Octagon at its present dimensions. Making the ring bigger just gives guys more of an opportunity to run away from each other, and you don't want that. You want them to be forced into combat. You want one guy to be able to pin another guy in a corner and start wailing away at him (hence, an octagon. More sides means more corners!). You don't want to give people room to escape. YOU WANT BLOOD.
So when I take a shower, I follow the same pattern/routine with the bar of soap - left arm, right arm, mid-section, left leg, right leg (of course, saving wang and taint for last). Throwing out the last bits, does this pattern suggest that my right ankle is the dirtiest part of my body? And my left shoulder is the cleanest?
Not necessarily. Like many people, I only give a cursory wash to my lower legs and feet because a) They're hard to reach! and b) I assume that all of the soapy residue dripping down from my soaking wet, sexy torso acts as its own cleansing process. I think that the cleanest part of your body, judging by your showers habits, will ALWAYS be your genitals. If men washed every part of their bodies as thoroughly as they washed their testicles, we could eradicate all worldwide diseases. I really get in there, because it's crazy fun. Much more fun than trying to wash my upper back, which hasn't been washed by hand once in my lifetime. I just hope the shampoo lather I rinse out does the job for me. And you know what? It probably does.
I actually start out soaping my chest and belly, and I try to work up as much lather as possible, and then I use that lather to give myself a fake beard because LATHER BEARDS RULE. Your body is the canvas with which to paint your body in soapy goodness.
What would you pick if given the choice: getting half your tongue chopped off or half your dick chopped off? No pain meds or numbing agents, and in both scenarios it's completed with one expert Iron Chef hack.
Probably should add you are forced to choose one scenarios or your family will be killed.
JESUS CHRIST! I guess you have to pick your tongue because you don't want to spend the rest of your life with a stump between your legs. I should note, though, that I saw a dude's tongue get cut out in Caligula and it scarred me for life. Do not watch that movie. Do not watch ANY movie that features manual tongue removal. I squirm when I have to look at one of my own canker sores in the mirror. I can't even imagine how much worse it is to have your tongue cut out. And the worst part is that you can try to scream, BUT NOW YOU HAVE NO TONGUE.
What percentage of women walking around would show you their boobs if you just asked nicely enough? It's more than zero isn't it?
Are you allowed to go somewhere private for the viewing, or is it right there in the street? It's a little bit more than zero, but not by much. We were on the Kid Rock cruise for GQ and there was a lady who flashed her boobs in the cafeteria whenever people asked, but people—regardless of gender—are usually either too offended (justifiably!) or too shy to whip out their privates for display to strangers. It's cold, and most people just have a natural instinct to cover up.
Think about it. What if you were walking on the street and someone—anyone—asked to see your penis, right then and there? You, Mr. Big Macho Dick? You'd have to think about it. What if they want to chop it off and sell it on the black market? This penis isn't just for ANYONE, you know. It would have to be '80s Samantha Fox asking for me to whip it out without hesitation.
This is a constant source of curiosity for men. Men like sex and want it all the time and don't want to have to dance around to get it. They want to just ASK for sex and ask for free bewbs and women don't work that way because it takes a certain level of trust, and also a deeper level of attraction, for them to just get right to it. Now, that's not always true. Some women will go right for it. It's just that you won't ever meet them when you're in high school, because high school is cruel and unfair.
What if you found out you're actually the son of one of your favorite vintage pornstars? Would you still watch her material?
By the way, there's a whole story to be done about kids who grow up with parents who are or were porn stars. I bet half of them end up doing custodial work at the local monastery. I'd move to fucking Alaska, or anywhere where people wear the maximum amount of clothing.
Given the large number of regional and nationally televised games, what are the odds that a sportscaster somewhere has sharted while on the air? Basketball and hockey are during the prime cold and flu season, plus all of them travel so much they have to pick up a bug somewhere along the line. If it hasn't happened yet, what is your power rankings of the most likely candidates to shart on air?
Well obviously, Gus Johnson is the most likely candidate. He's a danger to explode with happy diarrhea anytime there's a first down during a regional Big 12 telecast. OMG IOWA STATE IS NOW IN OKLAHOMA TERRITORY SHARRRRRTTTTTTTT.
I think it's possible that it's happened a couple of times. My top choice would be Howard Cosell, because he was a drunk and a lout and wouldn't have thought twice about shitting his pants in the booth and forcing Dandy Don to sit there for three hours, huffing the fumes. He was not a considerate man.
Of course, I have to disqualify any broadcaster who might be elderly and suffering from incontinence, like a Dick Stockton or a Verne Lundquist. I'm sure one of those guys spends every weekend filling an overnight Depends while working a local Big East basketball game. You have to be compassionate in that instance. It's not like ol' Verne wanted that colostomy bag strapped to his thigh. It's just a byproduct of having six feet of small intestine surgically removed.
These days, with greater scrutiny of broadcasters and analysts, I bet it's extremely rare for an announcer to literally shit himself while on the air. That's something that happens to you only one, maybe two times, during the course of your adulthood. What are the odds of it happening right when you're talking to a nationally televised audience? Actually, God is cruel and would plan it that way, but that's not the point. I doubt that a genuine shart has been sharted on the air in a nationally televised sporting event more than once over the past ten years. A real shart, not some tiny Hershey squirt.
If an average guy were to go on dates with 100 average girls, how many do you think he'd be compatible with?
It depends on his age. If he's 21 or so, the answer is, like, four. Because men and women at that age are pickier and more irritating in general. If you make the guy 42, he'd probably be compatible with half of them, because older people looking for a mate tend to be more forgiving. "Well, he's got that third eye in the center of his forehead. But he DOES have health insurance, so that's not a bad trade!" People get more pragmatic about sex and relationships as they get older. No blossoming couple in their forties waits three dates to have sex. Hell, they'd barely get through dessert the first night out before running home to eat each other's genitals. At that age, you take what the defense gives you.
I have a coworker who, everyday, tells me that I look tired. Today's insult was, "you still look tired." How do I nicely tell her to STFU?
You tell her, "Shut the fuck up." The worst is when you're hungover and some idiot co-worker revels in your misery. LOOKS LIKE YOU HAD A ROUGH NIGHT! No shit, lady. Why don't you go home and pet your talking cat?
How many passes has Peyton thrown in his life? I'm talking about games, warm-ups, practices, off-season, growing up, high school, Pop Warner, the whole bit? Over 1 million right? Has to be.
In his pro career (regular season only), Peyton Manning has thrown 8,162 passes. At Tennessee, he threw 1,381 passes. In high school, he threw 452 passes. Now that's 9,995 passes in regulation alone. You probably throw the ball five hundred times a day in practice just to prepare for the 30 or 40 throws you'll have to make in the game.
Manning is 37. Let's assume ol' Archie made him start throwing the ball at age two, so that he would one day grow up to be a great pro quarterback and make up for his father's WILDLY OVERRATED professional career. That's 35 years of throwing the ball through a hanging tire, playing flag football in the backyard and purposely drilling Eli in the nuts, and pantomiming his throwing motion while studying tape of the Pulaski High offense. If he threw the ball 500 times a day, that would give him over six million lifetime throws. And this is Peyton Manning, who is an insane person, so that number still seems low.
What if it comes out that Incognito and Martin were lovers? "Lord of Discipline"?
Well then, the Earth would explode. I can't think of a worse way for open homosexuality to be introduced to the NFL. Even the Te'o case ended up being less divisive. Kerry Rhodes still remains unsigned, so you can imagine some GM taking a look at the Martin/Incognito mess and being like DURRRRR THESE MEME-TEXTING GAYS WOULD BE A DISTRACTION IN MY LOCKER ROOM DURRRRR. These husky gays with all their drama! NO PLACE IN FOOTBALL FOR THAT.
I actually think that, apart from that, this would be the BEST explanation for how strange this story has gotten. I would just be like, "Oh! Well, that explains it!" and then go about my business. I assume angry lovers threaten to fuck each other's sisters all the time. I had an ex-girlfriend. I know how these things work!
Email of the week!
A little while back, I was sharing a 3-bedroom apartment in Manhattan with two guys I didn't know (both were subletting from my actual roommates for the month.) One morning, I woke up with the usual rumblings in my gut, but wasn't overly concerned- having lived alone for so long before moving to NYC, I was used to living on the edge a bit when it came to taking care of my shitting needs; that is, I was accustomed to waiting until it was an absolute emergency to run to the bathroom to shit. More cathartic that way.
As I lay in my bed, I heard one of the roommates head into the bathroom. Figuring he wouldn't be in there too long, I fired up a cigarette and waited for my turn when it hit me like a fucking truck: this shit was not waiting. To this point, I had barely talked to the guy in the bathroom, so I felt uncomfortable pounding on the door- I was going to have to wait it out. Turns out, that was the day he decided to take a 45-MINUTE SHOWER. I tried everything to hold in this dump: standing with my sphincter clenched, sitting to hold the poop in, jumping in place (I thought gravity might force it upwards back into my intestines), but nothing was working. In my desperation, I took a look around my room for a suitable replacement, and I saw it:
My tiny trash can.
I placed a grocery bag in the can to protect it, plopped myself down on the can and let fly. The most unholy, liquid, satisfying shit came rocketing out of my ass, and though the shame was starting to set in, the relief was too profound for me to care. That is, until I felt urine splattering on my boxers, my feet, and the floor. In my haste to sit down, I hadn't secured my dick, and it was pointing over the edge of the trash can and spraying like mad. I angled it down, finished my business, wiped with a napkin I found next to my chair, cleaned up the piss, and briefly contemplated suicide.
I tied the grocery bag up and headed for the door so I could throw it down the garbage chute; at that exact moment, the roommate emerged from the shower, blissfully unaware of the atrocities which had taken place mere feet away. I couldn't look him in the eye.
I never told my roommates, and I still have that trash can.
Never live in New York.
Drew Magary writes for Deadspin. He's also a correspondent for GQ. Follow him on Twitter @drewmagary and email him at email@example.com. You can also buy Drew's book, Someone Could Get Hurt, through his homepage.
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