How To Protect Yourself From Excessive Rimjobbing

Time for your Thursday edition of the Deadspin Funbag. Find more of Drew's stuff at KSK or on Twitter. Today, we're covering water fountains, boogers, medical forms, revenge poop, friendly fire, and more.

No time to waste. We again go right to your letters:

Buster:

My wife and I have been married for 13 years. We have a good sex life. I have no complaints. However, for the last several months she has been rimming me. I mean really going at it like a maniac. When she did it the first time, I told her it was the best ever. Ever since then, when we have sex, she wants to do it because she wants to please me.

The problem is her saliva must be like battery acid. It has gotten so bad I have to keep a tube of preparation H at work and hid at the house. When I get home from work, I have to go and wash my ass because I'm afraid if we do have sex, she will taste the ass medicine. This ritual of washing my hole only makes it worse because it hurts to rub off the ass medicine, making it more raw. I'm afraid if I tell her not to do it one night, she won't do it again. The thought of that is almost as painful as my butt. I mean you have not lived until you have you hands behind your knees, pulling you legs in the air, and your wife jacking you off while her tongue is an inch inside your ass. What do I do?

Jesus.

/goes to throw up

Okay… so… Wait, just one moment…

/goes to throw up a second time

Okay, so rimjobs! Nice! I don't really understand how your asshole can get SO raw from that kind of thing. How long is she down there? An hour? I mean, sweet Jesus. She's tasted fudge. There's no way around it. She has absolutely hit fudge if she's going at for that long and that deep. There's no way around it. She treating your asshole like the inside of a goddamn bundt cake. Ever have the old Pillsbury bundt cake? With the tunnel of fudge? That's your butt.

Anyway, I do believe you're using the wrong medicine. Preparation H is for treating hemorrhoids, which you don't have. It's an active medicine. You just need a moisturizer, like Eucerin Aquaphor. I would try something like that before you take any kind of drastic measure, like scotchguarding your rectum.

Keith:

Is it that unusual that I often talk to myself? For instance, I'll be walking my dog (which, along with being on the can, is a great time to just think) and I'll just start contemplating out loud. I may do this for a full 10 minutes. I'm sure other people in the neighborhood have heard me doing this and think I must be schizophrenic.

I don't think talking to yourself is that unusual, but I rarely do it out in public. If I do it out in public, chances are I'm not even talking. I'm just muttering really low. I'm sure this makes me look like a lunatic, but far less so than if I were to talk to myself in a normal register. "Well, hello Drew! How are you today, Drew! I'm great, Drew! Thanks for asking! You know what's a funny phrase, Drew? YELLOW MONKEY COCKS!" That would be odd, especially the part about yellow monkey cocks.

When I talk to myself, it's almost always part of some imaginary conversation I plan to have with someone or would like to have with someone, famous or otherwise. We covered this in a previous mailbag, but I spend an inordinate amount of time rehearsing an imagined profile of myself on "60 Minutes". So if you see me walking to the drugstore and saying weird shit, chances are it's me talking to Steve Kroft about my seven consecutive Oscar wins. Steve is very impressed by Alternate Universe Drew, I can tell you that.

I'm much more likely to talk to myself in the house. Or worse, SING to myself. I'm not serenading myself, though that would be fun. I just get a song stuck in my head and start mouthing the lyrics. Sometimes, that will become audible, and I won't even realize it. Then the wife will pipe up:

WIFE: Did you say something?

ME: What? Me? No. You must be hearing things, crazy lady.

Then she goes back about her business. Only she KNOWS damn well I was talking to myself, and I know that she knows this. Yet it passes by unspoken, like a GHOST.

I also get odd phrases stuck in my head. I was forced to read Ulysses once, and Leo Bloom gets an ad stuck in his head about Plumtree's potted meat, and he repeats it to himself over and over because it's just THERE, in his head. This happens to me a lot. For example, I was going through the digital programming guide once and saw some kids' program named JAKERS! listed. I thought nothing of it. Later that day, I'm walking around and my head starts going, "Jakers. Jakers. JAKERS! JAKERS JAKERS JAKERS MOTHERFUCKER!!!!!" To this day, that word still pops up in my brain, and I'll find myself mouthing it. I have no clue what the show is or what it's about. I assume it blows.

Same with a cartoon called "Gundam Wing." I used to see it in the listings a lot and so it stuck in my head Gundam Wing Gundam Wing Gundam Wing, only my brain twisted "Gundam" into "Goddamn" and now anytime I see an airplane I think GODDAMN WING, which is just fucking bizarre. And this isn't some passing thing. I've had this in my brain for YEARS. I can't get rid of it. It's like some kind of bizarre internal thought tic.

A while ago, Laurence Fishburne and Stephen Baldwin made a really shitty movie called Fled. I never bothered to see it, but I thought the name of the movie was so awkward, that the word FLED stuck in my brain. Worse, the ads showed actor Will Patton saying the actual word, so now I think of Patton saying that word on a little endless loop in my brain. FLED FLED FLED.

I may need shock therapy.

Keith (again):

Don't you think that Sunday Night Depression should be a legitimate medical condition treatable with medication? When evening falls on Sundays I often stare catatonically at the TV in disbelief that I'm on the cusp of another full workweek. I think anti-depressants may be the only way I can get through this unbearable time.

It's even worse during football season. During football season, I will actually become depressed DURING the Sunday Night game because I know there's only one football game left in the slate for the week. Then it's that horrible six-day slog to get to the next Sunday and more football. It's a terrible feeling. Not as terrible as the entire, endless goddamn summer has been, but terrible nonetheless.

It's also worse when you're single. If you're married with kids, as I am, the workweek isn't so awful. You get to go to work and not take care of the kids, which is NICE. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. But if you're single, you still have weekends that are FUN. No house work. No relatives. No fucking kiddie birthday parties. It's just drinking and sloppy fucking and burritos at 3AM, every weekend. So that makes the idea of Monday a thousand times worse. Sunday Night depression tends to go away with old age, because when you're old, depression fills out the ENTIRE week. Fun!

Sean:

The building I work in has water fountains on every floor, but by far, the best one is on the first floor. My office is on the 8th floor, but I am more than willing to trek down there when I need to re-fill my water bottle. So, is it just me, or is there only one really really good water fountain in a building at a given time?

No, you're more or less correct. Let's ignore the fact that your work should have a water COOLER somewhere nearby to alleviate the need for a water fountain, and concentrate on your basic issue. It was this way at school, too. Most of the water fountains were horrible at every school I attended. Many didn't even spout water at all, which is a cruel tease.

Anyway, all water fountains should be evaluated on three basic criteria. First: Temperature. Is this water cold? Or is it piss warm and taste like fetid pond water? (If you're using an airport fountain, the answer is always YES, because they want you to buy the shitty Vasa water at Hudson News for three bucks.) Second: Strength of Stream. Does this water fountain ejaculate a mighty stream of liquid, or does it dribble like a bad orgasm? Third: Control. A strong stream is nice on a water fountain, but sometimes that shit is TOO strong, and it'll bukkake water all over you. You want to be able to control the flow of that fountain, to apply enough pressure to the button to get a really nice arc of water to feast upon. A water fountain that has all three of these qualities must be cherished, like a new bride or a limited edition Superman comic. Water from a good water fountain is really fucking good.

When I was a kid, there was a water fountain at our school that had a stream so strong, it shot right over the fountain fixture and landed on the floor. I never got tired of flooding the hallway with that thing, and they never bothered to fix it. I always imagined some poor janitor sopping up the mess with a mop at 4PM, plotting his violent revenge on whoever kept soaking his floor.

By the way, I go to a gym and the gym has two water fountains. Both are for handicapped people, which means they're three inches off the ground. This is horrible, and the problem is compacted by the fact that some asshole will always be at the fountain with a goddamn two-liter Nalgene bottle, spending six hours filling it up. Hey fuckhead, I'm THIRSTY. This is not the time for you to stock up for a power outage. Take your sip and fuck off. And get me a water fountain that I can reach without bending over like a prison mark.

Chet Lemon:

Anytime I watch Braveheart, Gladiator, Troy, etc. and it's a battle scene, I always wonder about the friendly fire. Since I would have adopted the strategy of swinging a sword like a wild man, there is no way that guys didn't routinely kill their own men during battle. Especially since there weren't always clearly defined red coats like those dumb British. Do you think this was just an accepted fact during war? It's one thing to accidentally shoot someone from hundreds of yards away but another to turn around and stab your buddy in the face. I'd guess 10% of people were killed by their own men.

Yeah, I think kings back then probably didn't worry too much about soldiers accidentally planting a battleaxe into each other's skulls. But you're right about movies like that. They always show two armies mash together and start killing the shit out of each other, and you're always wondering how ANYONE survives. Watch the "Lord of the Rings" movies. I love those movies, but the battle scenes make NO sense. Gandalf will be out in the center of the shit on a horse and no one fucking TOUCHES him. What the fuck? It's a melee. Orcs should be attacking his old ass from all sides, even if he has some kind of crazy Wizard force field I wasn't aware of. Even Aragorn goes through the battlefield virtually unscathed. If you were in an orc melee like that in real life (if orc melees were, you know, real), you'd be dead within three seconds.

If I was in that situation and everyone around me was fighting, I'd do three things. First, I'd shit my pants. Second, I'd swing wildly in all directions to keep everyone away, just as Chet would. Third, I'd fucking RUN out of that shit. I don't want to be in a spot where I have to worry about being knifed from any angle. I'm far too claustrophobic for that. That would be like being in a nightclub. I'd have to get out of that shit in the most cowardly way possible.

Also, I'm always oddly happy when I watch a war movie featuring a scene like that and then the go to the titles at the end of the movie and they say something like, "Four thousand men died at the Battle Of Antioch," or whatever. And I'm always thinking, Really? Four thousand? I just watched two hours of fucking carnage and only four thousand guys died? NOT BAD!

HALFTIME!

Dan:

I'm a compulsive wiper. Boogers, food smears, zit juice - it doesn't matter. If it's on my hands, I will find the perfect secret place to wipe it off. The girlfriend has recently discovered my talent (I've been getting sloppy) forcing me to retrain in the ways of the ninja Jedi wipemaster. What good hiding spots am I overlooking?

When I lived in my New York apartment, I used to smear boogers ON THE WALLS, right out in the open. My wife was horrified, as she had every right to be. I didn't even bother to wipe the boogers somewhere out of sight. No, no. Just a long trail of dried boogers right where the walls met in the corners of the joint. Horrifying.

Anyway, I too like to wipe random boogers, blood, and loogies in random places to avoid getting up and using an actual tissue. The underside of the floor mat in my car would shock and disgust you. I have no good tips for secret places to do your dirty work outside of the usual spots (under the rug, under the desk, behind the couch, under the couch, under a chair, on your mom), largely because I'm so shameless. Shit, I wipe stuff on my JEANS. That's horrible. Who would do such a thing? I would.

When I worked in an office, I often had garbage on my desk. Old Coke cans. Empty chip bags. Shit like that. They'd be on my desk because I was too lazy to throw them away. A lot of times, I'd jam a booger in the empty can. So not only would I keep garbage on my desk, but that garbage would also be filled with biohazard. I do not value myself.

Jeff:

I hate science. But while playing pool, and after converting a double cushion combo shot, I feel like I could recalibrate the fucking Hubble.

Yes, but surely you curse science once more when you MISS the same shot three seconds later. I always try and become John Nash when I'm playing pool at a bar. "Well, if I bank it off this side, it should bounce off the opposing diamond at a 43-degree angle and deliver the 5-ball gently into the side pocket." I begin to imagine little math sketches and equations appearing the table to diagram my perfect shot. Then I shoot and the ball goes off the table and hits a waitress in the fucking forehead. I suck at pool.

James:

I have an extremely regular pooping schedule- every day, 9 am, like clockwork. This means that I have to take a dump exactly one hour after I start work, and I spend my mornings working in a courthouse.

I don't know if you've ever been in a courthouse bathroom, but people think they're going to get back at "the man" by shitting on everything. It's safe to assume that everything you touch in a courthouse bathroom has at one point been smeared with poop in anger. Now, I'm no princess about where I poop, but I'd prefer not to get hepatitis. So is there a way to push my poop clock back to late afternoon? I'd much rather go back to the office and take my time.

I don't have much to offer in the way of advice (eat bananas?), but I LOVE the idea of future convicts taking out their frustration with the US justice system by defiling a Federal bathroom. That's fucking GREAT. "Goddamn judge. Sentence me to three years, will you? Well then, I guess I'll just diarrhea in this toilet and NOT FUCKING FLUSH. Suck it!"

I like the idea of an angry, spiteful poop. I usually treat pooping as a calming, relaxing exercise. I've never thought it as a vehicle for catharsis. But I like the idea of channeling all my negative energy into a really big shit. I'M SO ANGRY, I JUST… I'M GONNA SHOCK THE WORLD WITH THIS POOP!

I've never imagined shitting on enemies while I poop. I think I will now. Next time I poop, I'mma picture Seth Meyers at the bottom of the bowl. NOT SO SMUG NOW, ARE YOU? YOU LITTLE TITMONKEY.

Tom:

What is the worst thing a woman has ever said to you that wasn't meant as an insult? I was told I "look like the kind of guy who would wear Hawaiian shirts." That was last summer and I'm still shaken up.

Nothing really sticks out, except for the 8,000 times some girl said to me, "Aw, you're so sweet." That always translates to, "I wouldn't fuck you even if you shot thousand dollar bills out of your cock." If you ever hear that phrase from a woman, you need to restructure your entire approach to women, not unlike a golfer rebuilding his swing from scratch. Being labeled "cute" or "sweet" is penile doom.

John:

So I go to a new dentist today and on the patient medical history, I make the mistake of noting that I've had some high blood pressure readings taken in the past. Why the fuck would this be pertinent information for my dentist? So a little bit into my appointment, the dentist starts asking about my blood pressure and decides she wants to take a reading or two: 160/93, high. 150/90, better. 170/94, fuck.

Yeah, NEVER tell your doctor that shit. Either it's completely irrelevant and you've wasted his time, or he'll note it with concern and make you feel like you're dying or fat.

Also, most medical forms that make you list your history also want you to be SPECIFIC about whatever past ailment you had. They even make room so you can write a little college essay about it. That means extra writing, which means extra work, which means extra time filling out the form before you can take it back to the receptionist so she knows you are ready to fucking go see the doctor now. FUCK THAT. No chance I'm doing that. It's a spotless patient history for me! THAT BOUT OF SIFFY NEVER HAPPENED.

Although, and this will sound odd, I‘ll sometimes go through that long list of ailments to check off and feel a bit left out that I never got them. Have I ever had liver failure? No. Kinda sad I never have. I bet people would send me cards if I had that. STUPID HEALTHY LIVER.

John:

Seriously, what is the fucking point of ordering (or making) a chicken salad sandwich? I might as well be ordering half an order of chicken salad on my plate, half on my crotch and two pieces of toast. Who the hell looked at chicken salad and decided "Yeah, that's stable enough to go in between two pieces of bread without falling out and leaving mayonnaise residue all over my crotch"? I wish that person could spend eternity trying to be taken seriously in an important meeting with dried mayo on their crotch.

It's even worse if you're me and you hate mayo and you'll never accept any chicken salad with that horrid fucking goose taint all over it. Mayo is awful, but it acts as a critical binding agent in something like chicken salad. Without it, it's not chicken salad. It's just a pile of stuff. Still beats having mayo on it, though.

Anyway, I too dislike sandwiches like this where a chunk of meat will always pop out the back upon eating. UNLESS that sandwich is served in some kind of enclosed bread, like a pita. Kebabs are good like that, unless the pita hasn't been wrapped with foil on the bottom. Ever have a kebab pita completely break down on you? So fucking sad.

RP:

What's your stance on naked pooping? I enjoy it alright, but something just feels off about it.

Agreed. I watched a birthing class vid once where the woman was giving birth while naked. It was the most horrible thing I've ever seen, and that's what I think of if I take a shit while nude. I think of gross, sweaty, naked birthing. It's not for me.

Jake:

Have you ever realized you're almost out of beer and you've got company coming over? If you're like me, you run out and buy some that's warm because you're a dipshit, hastily throw a few into the freezer because you need them cold in a hurry, and then forget about them when something comes up, or because your guests one-up you and show up with a bottle of wine. Then you find your emergency beers a few days later exploded in your freezer. I can't tell you how many times this has happened to me.

I've had it happen enough times now where I now put the beer in the freezer and become a complete neurotic about checking up on it. Is it cold yet? Is it cold yet? Is it cold yet? IT'S KINDA FROSTY NOW! TRANSFER! TRANSFER!

Sometimes, I'm just a little late and I get to the beer in the freezer and it's just begun to crystallize in the center. That is so fucking cool. I could stare at partially frozen beer for days on end. Looks like something Superman would drink while hanging out in the Fortress of Solitude. CRYSTALS ARE MYSTERIOUS AND POWERFUL.

Buying beer the day of having company over always sucks. I go to the store, and the beer I want to buy is ALWAYS in the warm aisle, which means I gotta do the freezer thing. Or worse, it's in the cold case, but then I bring it home and the wife is all THERE'S NOT ENOUGH ROOM IN THE FRIDGE FOR ALL THAT BEER, but I know damn well I can't leave it all out to skunk. So I cram that shit in every available orifice of the fridge. And then the wife is just HATEFUL of that beer taking up so much precious fridge real estate. Women get so testy with fridge and pantry space. As if beer isn't worthy of being in a fridge with the cottage cheese. It has every right to be in the crisper. WHO ARE YOU TO LOOK DOWN AT MY YUENGLING, LADY?!

And my time is up this week. Time for another GREAT MOMENT IN FART HISTORY. Reader Mike sends in a story I call GREAT FARTSPECTATIONS.

Seventh Grade. English class. 5th period (post-lunch). We had just had a very questionable beef burrito from the cafeteria and played a fun round of Smear the Queer when the bell rang and my friends and I went back to our classroom for our Big English Test. I don't even remember why the test was such a big deal, but I do remember that the teacher was super strict and would not allow a noise to be uttered during tests and would not allow anyone to leave the classroom to go to the bathroom.

Anyway, about midway through, the combination of the burrito and the running around starts to take effect and something's bubbling up inside. I start to panic because I know I cannot ride this out until the end of the test. A fart WILL come out.

The option of the bathroom is out. The room is totally quiet and still. You could hear a pin drop. I can't hold it any more. I position myself on the chair so that no one can tell what I am about to do... What came out of my ass was my crowning achievement of all middle school.

That fart was the deepest, loudest, gnarliest two-second eruption I have ever produced. Like Keyser Soze, as soon as it appeared, it vanished, leaving no trace. Amazingly, there was no smell. Just pure Dial it up to 11 volume.

Of course, everyone starts cracking up. I mean everyone, even the girls. The good thing is that since everyone was concentrating on their test, no one was able to identify the source. Everyone was just laughing their asses off and even the teacher managed to smile for a half second before ordering everyone to quiet down and continue the test.

So, I feel I am home free! I have just pulled off the most amazing feat with no one knowing it was me. Unfortunately, amid the simmering giggles, someone actually starts the investigation. "Who did that?" People start looking around trying to figure out where the noise came from. Luckily, it was all volume and no stink, so it couldn't be traced. They start looking in my general vicinity as I am sitting in the center of the room and I laugh nervously hoping the inquisition is called off and the teacher tells us again to go back to the test.

It was then that the guy sitting directly in front of me looks back at me in an accusatory form. He was about to rat me out! Before he could say a word, I said, "Dave, that's disgusting!" I think he was shocked. I will never forget the look on his face. It was a mixture of "Why?" and "You asshole!" At that point, the teacher took command and ordered everyone to be quiet again and the giggling stopped and we all got back to the test.
I have always regretted laying the blame on Dave, but I thought for sure he was going to rat me out and I couldn't be "The Guy that Farted during the Big English Test". That would have derailed any hope I had with any girl in the school. He did become that guy and, unfortunately, he wouldn't live that incident down until we all left for high school…