It's April Fool's Day today, and we've now reached the point where April Fool's has officially become a web nuisance. "Big news everyone! From now on the funbag will be written by Robert Weintraub!" Yes, hardy fucking har. Everyone realizes it's April Fool's Day right around 9:02AM these days. The rest of the day is a slog through shitty web prank after shitty web prank. So, from now on, I lay down this law: NO FUCKING APRIL FOOLING ALLOWED ONLINE. Want to prank someone? Then get off your sorry ass and pull a REAL prank. Shit in a friend's desk. Slip your boss roofies and rape him with a rusted pipe. Those are real pranks.
Also, a brief announcement: One week from tomorrow night, I'll be at the U. of Arizona to be a judge in the Red Bull Chariot Race. I have no fucking idea what this event is, except that it involves drunk kids in togas doing something that will likely resemble the tricycle race in Revenge of the Nerds. "This is trichloromethyline. It counters all effects of alcohol in your system." So if you're around next Friday, and you're the sort of person who likes getting drunk and falling down for the amusement of others, come on out. Now, to the funbag.
I was staying with my parents' friends in Jersey and had just arrived at their home, eager to relieve myself with an après road trip unburdening.
Just as I entered the squeaky clean bathroom and perched myself on the porcelain throne, lo and behold - I found myself in front of a mirror. And not just any mirror; a floor to ceiling mirror directly facing the toilet, displaying my reflection in its entirety, pants around the ankles and all.
A great unease passed over me: though I knew I was alone, I felt like I had an audience all of a sudden. I tried to look away, but to no avail. The doors of the scatological Fortress of Solitude, which I had taken for granted all these years, were closed. It was a moment of great discomfort and I shall never forget it.
See now, I've been subjected to the full-length shitter mirror and quite enjoyed it. Everyone looks terrible when they're taking a dump. Still, I like occupying myself mid-shit by staring at my face, or seeing how much of my gut I can collect in both hands. Or pulling up my gut to see how skinny I'd be if I had no gut (NOTE: I recently lost weight, but still have a gut).
Furthermore, there's also time to speculate on precisely WHY someone night install a full length mirror in front of their bathroom shitter. And people, there is only one explanation. Three words. Reverse. Angle. Blumpkin. If you're receiving a blumpkin, I have no doubt that a full-length mirror would only serve to improve the experience. Your parent's friends be FREAKIN', my friend.
By the way, not to talk out of turn here, but I've been known to enjoy helping myself to myself in front of a mirror. It's fun. THIS IS HOW I'D LOOK DURING A PORN SHOOT. So hot.
This morning as my wife came out of the shower I decided to give her some "afternoon delight" in the morning. She was standing in front of the sink. I sat down behind her and started to slide closer to her. I told her to open her legs so that I could start to give her head and she said, " Wait a minute, I have to brush my teeth". I knew it. I knew it. I knew it.
That's the risk you take when you try to do the whole "home reenactment of porn" thing. There's about a 1 in 50 chance you'll actually catch your lady in the just right mood for such a dalliance. Any other time, and she'll be like, "What the hell are you doing? WHAT? Oh, God no." It's not really fair. There should be at least one time a week when you're allowed to sneak up behind your lady and treat her the way Michael Douglas does Jeanne Tripplehorn in Basic Instinct. But noooooooooo.
I play basketball once a week in a rec-league. After my game last week I took a shower (yes I was a little high), and started imagining myself as a professional player after a tough game. I even dumbed down my fantasy and thought it would have been super cool just to play for a real college team, not my Intramural juggernaut that was named Team Bacon.
I used to do that when I rode the bench. I'd come in and shower (dunno why I showered, given that I didn't do anything other than walk out on to the field and walk back in three hours later), and I'd stick my face under the water and let out this GIANT sigh, as if to say, "Hard fought battle out there, motherfuckers. TOUGH DAY OUT IN THE TRENCHES." I made the traveling team once or twice, and whenever that happened, I also took great pains to spend the bus ride home staring wistfully out the window into the night, like I was in the "Wanted Dead Or Alive" video and had just played my heart out for 50,000 screaming fans. I'VE SEEN A MILLION FACES, AND I ROCKED THEM ALL.
One other fun thing to do: sitting in the shower. Any time I've played touch football and gotten muddy, or any time I'm showering while sick or tired or emotionally distraught, I enjoy sinking down in the shower and just sitting there for a moment, like I'm comforting Vesper Lynd in Casino Royale. LOOK AT HOW DRAMATIC MY LIFE IS. Shit is getting pretty heavy when I gotta sit in the shower, dammit.
When it's quiet in the office I hate answering my phone. Because of course everyone is listening to my conversation and I have to talk in my quiet, calm voice to try to defend against their listening efforts. Sucks balls. Especially when the DR calls with my colonoscopy results.
I worked at a place once where I had the same problem, and there came a day when I had to call a doctor's office to schedule an appointment and there's always that horrible, "And what is the nature of your visit?" question that trips me up. "And can you tell me what's wrong with you? Is it limpdick? It is, isn't it? It's limpdick. SAY IT'S LIMPDICK OUT LOUD OR WE WON'T SCHEDULE YOU, YOU PUSSY!" Anyway, I had to call to get referred for biofeedback therapy for my weak bladder. And I had to say this in the middle of a crowded office. And halfway through the call, as I was agonizing over the fact that everyone could hear me, I just settled down and was like, FUCK IT. I let go and happily blabbed out loud about my problems. Oh yeah, I got weak stream. Weak as shit. Barely a dribble. My cockfaucet is broke and I don't care who knows it! Felt very liberating.
I used to work at a small ad agency that had no receptionist, so all of us had to answer the phone and play the role of receptionist if need be. I was horrible at this. First off, everyone has their formal phone greeting voice, which is not your normal voice. It's always pitched a bit higher. "Lucent Technologies! This is Drew!" And you have to keep that shit up all the way through the call. "He's not here right now. May I take a message or give you his cell? Oh, hello Mr. Martin!" I hate talking like this. All I want to do when I talk like this is punch myself in the face. It's the same feeling I get whenever I try and record my voice mail greeting. It always sounds terrible. "Hi! This is Drew! I BLOW DOGS!" Ever try and record your voice greeting with another person present in the room? Horrible.
Anyway, one of the things I noticed while answering phones is that there are people out there who do not know how the fuck to place a phone call. I would answer the phone and there would be people who, upon my greeting, would say NOTHING except for, "Hey." Hey? Hey? Hey, who the fuck are you? What, am I supposed to recognize your fucking voice instantly? Am I your fucking boyfriend? When you call a place of business, state your name and tell me why the fuck you are calling.
Then I'd get people who would say their name way too fast. Then, why I asked to say their name again, they'd sound all annoyed. Dude, you might have a weird name. I'm not gonna always hear it the first time. And then they'll just say their name again, only twice as fast. By that point, I just gave up and never bothered to give the message. My boss said I was the worst receptionist in history. Do not doubt him on this.
(One aside with regards to calling people and not giving them your name: When I was in middle school, I used to call girls I liked and do that thing in the 80's where you talk on the phone for hours at a time about tedious bullshit. I thought being all friendy would get these chicks to like me, which was wrong, of course. But there was the thrill of calling them enough to the point where they recognized my voice upon answering, so I never had to say my name. I always felt like I was fucking IN when that happened. I was not.)
Inspired by today's mailbag I went on a little journey. I picked up some Cadbury eggs and headed to the Dairy Queen. They would not make me a Cadbury egg blizzard. I argued. I offered a bribe. I asked for the manager. I offered a bigger bribe. I considered tearing up a little bit but couldn't. I left feeling more like a big fat failure than I ever have before. Sigh.
Don't give up, you fatty fat fat! Make that shit… at home! It can be done. GOONIES NEVER SAY DIE.
Hi Drew. I go to law school at the University of Miami. It's full of self-congratulating assholes, like the person who drives this car.
It's the end of a work day and I just went to piss in the office's unisex bathroom before heading home. Upon entering the stall I realize there's a handful of change scattered on the floor next to the toilet. Would you pick up the change? The price of a stamp, that's not enough for me. $1; price of a bag of vending machine chips? Maybe. What makes this situation more humiliating is that I work in fundraising and spend my days telling people that every penny matters. Well, kids, they don't. Not if they've been peed on.
I don't pick up any change that's less than a full quarter. But I will pick up a quarter anywhere I find one, even if it's sitting in a pile of discarded uranium. I don't care if it's on the floor of a shitter. The sink is right there for me to wash my hands. So who gives a shit if the dime has pee on it? All money does.
I would happily pick up more dimes off of floors and sidewalks, except for this problem. It's fucking impossible to pick up a dime on the first effort. I don't have long fingernails, so picking up a dime with my stubby little fingerpaws is like asking me to help someone move in. I always bend down, struggle to get it, curse out loud, then drop to one knee. And that's when I get really pissed, because dropping to one knee turns it in to a whole THING. Horrible. All I wanted was a dime. Whenever I drop change at the supermarket, I always feign like I'm gonna pick it up, then the cashier says, "I'll get it," and I totally let them. Picking up change is a bitch.
At what point in a young boys life is masturbation supposed to begin? I ask because I feel like I started a wee bit early and wondered if I was a masturbation prodigy or just a fucked up 7 year old. I remember as far back as a 7 year old when I would be on the living room couch going to town on myself while my mother would cook dinner in the adjacent kitchen.
Yeah, but did you orgasm? It's not masturbation unless you're bringing yourself to orgasm. Every young boy out there spends all day pulling on his dick. But that's not jerking off. It's when you squirt that it can be officially logged in as a jerk.
I started officially at 11. I'm now 33. That means I've been jacking it for over two thirds of my life. THAT'S GOOD LIVIN'!
My wife drives a Prius and occasionally I drive it too. But when I do drive it I'm a totally different person. They not only have a running total for the tank of gas but a lifetime total AND they have a constant gauge that shows you the mpg you're getting at that very second. I constantly watch that gauge, some much so that I don't care if I hit a pedestrian so long as I keep my mpg up at the top of the scale. In fact when I see a red light I immediately let off the gas and am willing to coast, for miles if need be. Suddenly there are people driving around me just so they can hurry up to wait at the light. I'm not this person when I drive my Accord, in fact I hate those fucking slow bastards when I'm in my car. Am I an asshole or just a hypocrite?
You're neither. You're just an automaton whose brain happens to be controlled by whichever car you're driving at the moment. That's why they have the MPG monitor in your car. They put that in because they know you will toy with the gas until you've got the fucker running at optimum efficiency. There's no other reason to have it there.
I have a car that is not a hybrid, but it does have an MPG gauge. I'm not as mindful of it as Ryan here, but I do like it when I take my foot off the gas an the thing goes all the way to the maximum. Look at that! I'm getting infinite miles per gallon! What a coup! Then I hit the gas and the thing goes plummeting down to, like, ten. Aw, man. A seagull just died.
I'll tell you one thing about hybrid cars that no one really talks about. They're too fucking quiet on the road. You could be out playing in the street, and you'd never know there's some asshole in a Prius coming at you at 35 MPH until your head was embedded in the fucker's windshield. It's unnerving. A Prius is like a burglar in socks. VERY FUCKING SNEAKY. I don't trust them. Real cars make noise and announce their presence. Stephen King's Christine would be a Prius if she existed today.
Have you settled on a haircut for life? I've been cutting my own for years with clippers - 4 on the sides, 7 on top, good to go! I figure this is how it will be until the end of my days. Or until (shudder) I lose my hair. I could be 70 years old and I would still be terrified of going bald.
I guess I have settled on a haircut for life. I never thought of it that way. It's almost sad to contemplate. I wanna get a Mohawk now just to make sure it isn't the case. I could use a switch. The whole preppy bang ridge isn't exactly serving me well.
I have been a nail biter as far back as I can remember. I know that biting your nails is a fairly common habit, but once I have removed the nail I do something different. I have a strange obsession to always have a nail in my mouth. I would estimate that I have at least one fingernail (frequently more) about 90% of the time. It is really bizarre, and I don't think anybody else does this. There are drawers in my room that are filled with fingernails that I am saving for later. I have storage compartments in my pants that have fingernails in it, just in case I am ever without a fingernail to put in my mouth.
Am I weird?
Fuck and yes, you are. Buy some gum.
What's the absolute laziest "chore" you've ever taken an irrational sense of satisfaction from? Yesterday I changed a wall calendar from February to March (yeah, it's the 7th ... what's your point?) and went, "Well, check that one off the list! I am so productive! Time for a break. Now what's on TV?"
Shopping online. Here we have a miracle of technology that has saved people like me from having to set foot in a goddamn mall, and already I treat it like it's a supreme pain in the ass. What's that? Buy John a wedding gift by clicking a few times? UGH. Why don't you just have me scrub the toilet while you're at it? I am so fucking ungrateful.
The upside of that is, when I do buy something that we need online, I immediately run to my wife to tell her what a productive human being I am. I bought the girl shoes. Am I not a fucking whirlwind of accomplishment?
So, I just smoked a fair sized joint. I started watching the daily show and colbert, which only took me a total of two hours taking into account all the rewinding I did due to missed jokes and confusion. All the while this shrimp salad leftover from last night dancing in my head. I finally muster the motivation to head upstairs to partake in this shell noodle salad delight, and I get to the fridge to see that it's not where I left it. You would have thought I missplaced a child by how I reacted. So I turn around and see the container on the counter. Empty. FUCK AND NO! Someone will die.
I enjoy the fact that G really DID write this while stoned. It's so clear from the wording. Misplacing things is something I always do while high. I'll be like, "Man, I could really go for some Kraft Mac right now. Lemme just get up and look for it. Wait, where the fuck is the Kraft Mac? WHAT THE FUCK? WHO BROKE IN HERE AND ATE MY SHIT? Wait. No, wait. Oh! Oh, I know! I'm in the bathroom! That's why the macaroni isn't fucking here. I gotta go to the KITCHEN to find it." Then I'll go to the kitchen, forget what I was looking for, and then wonder why I can't find the toilet. POT IS FUN.
Yesterday was a magical day at the gym. Two hot blondes were running across from me on the treadmill. I was determined to outlast them to somehow impress them with my endurance. I ended up running 6 miles.
Did you pick up your speed as well? Because that's mandatory in any guy brain. Oh, look! Hot chicks! If I start sprinting, they'll wanna fuck! In fact, if there's a person, any person, next to me at the gym, I CANNOT go slower than them on the equipment. I'll check my legs and theirs to see who's pedaling or running faster, and then I'll pick up the pace. IT'S A RACE! I'M GONNA TOTALLY WIN!
Also, whenever I'm done on the equipment, I like to linger on it for just one extra second and really play up how hard the workout was. Exhale loudly. Put my hands on my hips. GOD, WHAT A WORKOUT. IT WOULD FELL MORTAL MEN FOR CERTAIN.
Last week, while loading groceries in my car, I thought for a second that I might have some FBI agents snapping surveillance photos of me, like I was the prime suspect in a complex RICO investigation. Every move I made was being captured and added to a running log of my daily activities. Now I can't unlock my car, let the cat out, or exchange parcels with friends in parking lots without feeling like I'll end up on some corkboard in a dimly-lit bureau precinct. Should I stay home and keep a low profile or watch less Sopranos?
I always imagine there's a satellite hovering a thousand miles above me, taking very high-resolution shots of me getting in and out of my car. Then I imagine that footage is beamed to a top secret control room in Langley where a grizzled old man is reviewing footage of me and saying to his crew, "This asshole again? Switch to the Pakistan feed."
If I see an unfamiliar car parked in my neighborhood, and it has tinted windows or NO windows, I always assume it's a couple of Federal marshals conducting a wiretap of my phones, or conducting stakeout of my neighbor's home. They could be drinking coffee out of thermoses and bonding as partners right now. And if they aren't marshals in that van, then they are definitely drug dealers or child molesters. No wiggle room there.
When I eat Chicken Pad Thai, with the tasty scrambled egg inside, I can't help but think of how I am simultaneously devouring two generations of poultry. Any other mainstream meal accomplish this?
Unless someone has invented a corn kernel and baby corn salad, I don't think so. I like Kurt's mentality, though. Something very sinister about it. I AM WIPING OUT AN ENTIRE FAMILY OF CHICKENS. I AM THE FUCKING KEYSER SOZE OF CHICKEN.
The vending machine on the floor of my office has been broken since 2/22. I know this because the "vending machine guy" put a note on it. It's now 3/3. I was tempted to fire off an email to our office maintenance department and inquire about an ETA for the thing, but then I though, damn, I'm about to bitch about a broken vending machine when Haiti and Chile just fell of the map. This is why everyone else in the world must hate Americans.
But, the more I thought about it, the more I think I should complain. My though, if we just start letting "everything go" because compared to tragedies nothing is really important, then the whole "fiber of America" / "gears that make the country go" fail and fall apart, right? It's not like I stopped brushing my teeth because I said, "Man, why am I even brushing, those people in Haiti and Chile don't even have teeth/arms/houses/running water…"
Should I push to get this vending machine fixed?
Yes. It's a vending machine. It has nothing to do with armless Haitians. You needn't confuse the two. Find out the name of the company that runs the vending machine in your office, call them, and tell them you'd love to see the machine fixed so that you can have your daily dose of Andy Capp's Hot Fries. Tell them if they don't fix it, you'll be forced to buy Frito Lay children's variety packs at the store, and no one wants you to exercise that Nuclear Option.
Not sure if this as been addressed or not but is there a more self absorbed prick than John Schnatter, the Papa John's founder?
No, and he looks just like this guy I know who is ALSO a self-absorbed prick. He's like a double prick. Better ingredients. Better Pizza. FUCK YOU.
Do you "sky write" when taking a leak? I am like Zorro when pissing in the toilet. I try to spell things or use the stream to make shapes and what not. Based on the past mailbags I am guessing you and your readers use the bowl water for all its potential.
I like to see if I can make trails in the water. You know when it's dark and you have a watch that glows in the dark and so you wave your hand around to make it look like a laser show? That's what I do with my piss.
Why is getting out of bed always the hardest thing to do no matter how often you have to be up by 6:30? I've been getting up around this time 5 days a week for like 7 years and it still ruins me. It's awful and it's never going to get any better.
Have a kid. When you have a kid and that kid wakes up at 6:30, without waking up at all in the middle of the night, you feel like you can climb the fucking K2. Twice.
I used to love going to the waterslides when I was a little kid. Part of this was because of the intense awesomeness that is a water park (like a typical fat kid I loved the lazy river), but that was not the only allure to me. I felt that the changing area at the water park was a place where the normal rules of society didn't apply. For some reason I would drop my trunks around my ankles and spin around in the middle of the room while pissing. It was like being a whirling dervish, well, a whirling dervish who was half naked and pissing that is. I have no idea why I did this and even less idea why I'm admitting to doing it.
That's a great idea. I wish I had done that at the water park. "WET BANANA, EVERYBODY!" Instead, I always forgot to put on sunscreen and then realized it just as I was going down a slide and one of the seams in the tube scraped against my burn. So, so horrible.
I still love water slides. If you told me we were going to Typhoon Lagoon tomorrow, I wouldn't be able to sleep tonight. I can't watch Bill & Ted without wanting to go immediately to the nearest water park. "We all know… the boys and the girls are doin' it!!!!"
Time for me to go, gang. But, of course, I leave with yet another GREAT MOMENT IN POOP HISTORY. This one comes from an anonymous reader. I call it, BREAD AND BUTTER CHUNKS.
I kind of went through (still going through) a weird phase during university (I'm Canadian, we don't say college) where I would eat or drink just about any disgusting food for money. One time back in about 2002 I was at a dorm party at my university and all these jock hockey player guys bet me $40 I couldn't drink a Costco sized jar of pickle juice. I'm talking about 2 liters (1/2 gallon?). I was already pretty drunk at this point, and we were about to go to a bar, so I figured an extra $40 wouldn't hurt. What I didn't expect, was how quickly a big fucking jar of pickle juice can pass through your bowels.
When we got to the bar I can remember doing a shot immediately, and that's when it hit me. I no longer had control of what was coming out of my body. I tried to awkwardly poop run to the washroom, but I didn't make it. There were waves of green liquid coming out of my ass. When I got to the washroom, there were no stalls available, so I had to wait, leaning against a wall so no one could see what was going on, meanwhile, my legs were covered in what felt like the most disgusting liquid imaginable, and the whole washroom was beginning to smell like pickles. When I finally got into the toilet, I came pretty close to filling the whole thing up with a thick green liquid. My boxers, pants, socks, shoes were all ruined, and here I am in a small bathroom in a bar trying to figure out what to do. There's no way I could pull this off now, but being 20 years old and drunk, I cleaned up the best I could, and just made a beeline for the door.
The best part is, I only lived about 2 blocks away, so I went home showered/changed/through out clothes, and made it back well before last call. Luckily as well, I still like pickles.
Whereas I now do not.