A Lesson In Dealing With Women Who Have Baby Fever

Time for your Thursday edition of the Deadspin Funbag. Find more of Drew's stuff at KSK or on Twitter. Today, we're covering poop, oceans, bodily fluids, ice, office meals, and more.

Your letters:

Brian:

My wife just hit 34, and though she's been talking about having kids for the last year, the other day she drew a line in the sand and said that I either get onboard or she's taking off. We agreed when we got married that we weren't going to have kids.

Everyone I know with kids seems absolutely miserable. Most can't stand their wives any longer, most are now stuck working until the day they die to support the Mrs. and the little shits, and the rest had crap lives before, so not much has changed.

We on the other hand have it pretty good...we travel a lot, go out when we please, we can sleep, we're able to stay in shape, and most importantly because of our dual income, we'd be able to retire around 50 if she doesn't pull the goalie.

This seems like a no brainer to me... how do I get the Mrs. to see my side of this?

You don't. When a woman wants to have children, you're not going to talk her out of it. Ever. She sees her friends and siblings walking around with little boys and girls and that's pretty much the end of it. The extent many women will go to have a child once they want one can be stunning in terms of both determination and expense. A woman who wants a child is like a man with a boner: You cannot stop either from getting what they want.

You're in an impossible situation. You say you and your wife agreed before marrying to not have children. So clearly, you have some defense in the matter. Not to say a woman doesn't have the right to change her mind, but you did cover that base before getting hitched. The matter, in your mind, was settled.

I'm not gonna bother trying to convince you to have kids. It's not for everyone. I have a wife and two children I love dearly and make me happy and I wouldn't trade for anything on Earth. We may even have a third child, because we're lunatics. But I always KNEW I wanted to have a family, so my opinion is useless to you. All I will tell you is this: Your wife wants a child. That means she's going to have one. So you're going to have to consider if living with children is worse for you than living without your wife, because it's going to be one or the other. It's a shitty position to find yourself in and I'm sorry you're in it, but that's the reality of it.

Whatever you do, do NOT try and strike up some bargain where you say, "Okay, we can have the kid, but YOU will have to do all the work." She may agree to that, but she'll hate your face by the third week of the child's existence if you really don't do anything to help.

The lesson here is this: NEVER assume that the person you're marrying can't contract baby fever at any given time. No matter what they say or do now, there may come a time down the pike when they (justifiably) begin to wonder if something is missing in their lives by being childless. This is a perfectly natural feeling, but it will FUCK YOU IN THE ASS if you counted on it never coming to the surface. Take heed. The safest way to avoid having kids is to never get married, for better or worse.

Brooks:

What do you do when you are filling a glass with crushed ice from the fridge and some of the ice spills on the ground? I tell you what I do…I kick that ice right under the fridge, out of sight out of mind. No bending down for me!

You are goddamn right, good sir. Picking up ice off a lineoleum floor should be an Olympic event, it's so fucking hard. Unless you have nails like your average Key Food cashier, that ice is impossible to pick up off the ground. I also get extremely pissed if I take the time to bend over to pick something up, and then spend more time bent over than I had originally planned. I was only planning to be down here for one second. But now the ice has gotten slippery and is skidding across the floor and now my back hurts and I'm vulnerable to attack from the rear at any moment. Just makes me incredibly angry.

So, like fair Brooks here, I kick that shit right under the fridge or the oven. I'm sure the underside of my oven contains any number of mildew spores, small crackers, Tostitos Hint of Lime pieces, peas, and stray Cocoa Puffs. They'll be there forever, because I'll be goddamned if I ever bother to clean underneath.

Fat the Gangster:

I have a co-worker who brings food to every meeting regardless of the meeting's proximity to a proper meal time. I do not want to see my co-worker eat a bowl of porridge at the 10:00 meeting any less than I want to which her eat almonds at the 3:00 meeting. Eat your breakfast at home, your lunch at a restaurant, and dinner out YOU FUCK! What's worse, she brushes her teeth walking down the hall after meetings. Who does this?!

No one. This person is clearly some kind of horrible Russian she-witch who doesn't understand office food protocol. Whenever I was in a business meeting and someone brought their own food, it made me extremely angry, for three reasons: 1) Now I'm hungry and will be unable to think of anything all meeting long except for wondering if the lady is gonna share, 2) No food was provided for everyone at the meeting, 3) I was too dumb to have the foresight to bring my own Nature Valley granola bar. Pisses me off to no end.

When I worked in an office, I also attended any number of mid-morning meetings in which lunch was brought in to be eaten AFTER THE MEETING IS OVER, or during the middle of the meeting as a break in the agenda. Have you ever had to sit in a class or a meeting with food nearby that you aren't allowed to touch until hours later? It's ANGUISH. It's torture. I feel like a caged animal. I just sit there the entire meeting and eyefuck the shit out of the oatmeal raisin cookies covered in Saran Wrap on a black plastic Solo plate on the end of the table. Meanwhile, Asshole McFuckface is at the head of the table talking about sales data or something and the idea of free cookies so tantalizing close by doesn't impact him in the fucking SLIGHTEST. What is wrong with that prick? How can he not want a cookie? What kind of sick twisted fuck is he to be able to coldly ignore that pile of sandwiches sitting in front of everyone?

I'd sit there and pray during the meeting that someone senior to me would break the seal on a food item and thus free me to go partake. One time, I got so hungry I was just like FUCK IT, and I went up to the cookie platter at 10:45 and took one. I expected to be greeted as a liberator. I expected any number of fellow attendants to immediately run and join me, grateful I had taken the initiative. But no. Everyone else just stayed bolted to their seats while I sat there, the obvious fat fuck in the room.

I hate meetings.

Erik:

Is there anything better than a massage (and I'm talking about a legitimate therapeutic massage)? Talk about shit to do when you become a millionaire: daily massages.

This is true, so long as you have the proper masseuse at your disposal. Ever get a bad massage? One that alternates between tickling and pain? Never fun.

But a good one… one where you drift off into sleep while the lady works out the kinks… that is fucking nice. It's kinda weird, because there's this unspoken fact that the therapist is laying his or her hands on your body and manipulating it in a very pleasant and caring manner, but you can't really say anything about that if you're being treated by a real masseuse and not Fung Lo over at the Rub and Tug. It just lingers there, completely unresolved. No wonder so many guys expect a handy at the end.

Pete:

I guess I'd expect to see this ride in Miami or NYC, but this was found in Buffalo.

A Lesson In Dealing With Women Who Have Baby Fever

Classy.

Andrew:

Why do we still sign crap? Every time some clerk or cashier hands me back a receipt to sign, I either write "x" or "pussy" or a long straight line as fast as I can before I am out of there. In a hundred years, are we going to have microchips in our fingers that will automatically withdraw from our account with a snap of our fingers, but still get stuck in some sketchy Fast-n-Serve to sign the receipt?

Probably. I hate signing things because it usually involves having to mail something, scan something, or (guhhhhhh) fax something, all of which I find extremely inconvenient. Stamps? You want me to go procure stamps to get you this signed document? Fuck you in the pants.

/last Pony Express worker reads this and cries a single tear

Anyway, I have no idea why we still need to sign things. Sometimes, you swipe your card and the store asks for a signature. Sometimes, there's no signature required at all. I sit there with the pen in my hand like an idiot, only to be told I don't have to do anything. Well, FUCK man! I guess I understand signing legal documents, lest you find yourself in a dramatic courtroom scene in which someone holds up a vital document and asks, "Is this YOUR signature, Mr. Cumstein?" But for everyday things like credit card receipts and timesheets, they're pointless. It's a signature. Any asshole could have squiggled it. My signature looks like it was made by someone who strapped a pen to an epileptic's foot.

John:

I got a root canal yesterday on one of my molars, and they give you that temporary filling with the piece of tape over it or whatever. For the life of me, I simply cannot stop tongue banging that fucking strip of tape/paper.

It's coarse as hell, so it's chafing the end of my tongue, but I simply CANNOT stop. This thing's gonna be sitting in my mouth for two weeks until I can go back and get a crown put on. I probably needed the root canal in the first place as a result of previous love affairs between cavities and my tongue. I've convinced myself that the tooth wouldn't have been nearly as bad if I hadn't eroded it into a hollow shell by treating it like an enamel clit.

When I had my wisdom teeth out, the doctor who performed the surgery placed two wadded up piece of gauze dipped in a clove solution into the sockets to help prevent drying. They were tucked far down into my jaw, but I could root around with my tongue and feel the rim of the empty socket, like it was the edge of a volcano. For weeks, I tongue banged this socket. Anywhere I went. I'm sure it looked to anyone looking at me that I was sucking an invisible dick. But I couldn't stop. If something irregular is going on inside my mouth, I have to fuck with it until it's resolved to my satisfaction. I can't leave it alone.

Ever get food stuck in your teeth somewhere where you have no access to a toothpick or floss? I'll flick that thing for HOURS.

HALFTIME!

Josh:

My kid is an only child. Whenever we go to the playground he immediately gravitates to whichever kid is there and starts playing. Does this mean that I have to talk to this stranger now standing next to me? Do I really need to listen about this person's child rearing woes, their exercise regiment or how awesome their iPhone is. Look lady, I bring my kid down here to get him to put down the DS for two seconds not hang with you.

I steadfastly avoid talking to other parents at the playground, mostly because 95% of them are lame and make me feel a zillion years old. It's horrible. All they talk about are sleep schedules and feeding habits and all I can think to myself during the conversation is, "Holy fuck this person is my age? I'm really this old and boring? SHIT." So I don't even bother engaging. I treat them like homeless people. I don't even look at them, lest they sense interest and amble over. You know what I say? I say "goodbye" when we leave. That's it. "Goodbye, person I was too antisocial to properly greet! HAVE A SWELL LIFE."

If you have kids, you will notice virtually all dads take this strategy. If you go to a playground full of dads, none of the dads will be speaking to each other. They may as well be taking a shit on the jungle gym, they're so socially isolated. If you go to a playground full of moms, it's an entirely different story. They freely chat each other up and swap discipline strategies and all that shit. You never see free-range fathers do that. Ever.

Sometimes, you'll be forced to leave a playground or pool because some parent there somehow manages to annoy everyone by parenting VERY FUCKING LOUDLY. For example, I took my kids to some public pool a couple weeks ago, and there was a lady there who was an absolute cunt to her kids. Just a fucking beast. Yelling at them. Correcting them every three seconds. I saw her drag her kid out of the pool and throw the kid on a lounger to chew the kid out, then the kid slapped her in the face and she started yelling at the kid. Everyone else at the pool froze and looked at each other, like, "Holy shit, this woman is a monster." I spent the rest of my time at the pool praying she'd leave. No way I was gonna leave early. I paid for the day. That bitch should have been tased.

RK:

My boss has about a dozen random VHS tapes on a bookshelf in her office all labeled "XYZ Fundraiser - November 2007" and whatnot. I can't help but assume that at least one of them is a sex tape. Reasonable?

Oh, I think all of them are. Maybe a snuffer thrown in for good measure.

I wish I had a pair of glasses that revealed who in crowd was sexually deviant. Like, you can walk around work and put them on and if someone likes to be burned with matches until orgasm, they would have a red aura around them. Then different colored auras could denote different fetishes, just like the gay hanky code. Used in the right environment, they'd be both amusing and useful for purposes of extortion. That nice old lady in payroll enjoys zucchini insertion? That is fucking CRAZY.

This is why I get creeped out when religious people tell me God is all knowing and all seeing. That means he knows EVERYTHING, so he's gotta be completely disgusted with all of us. If I were him, I wouldn't let ANYONE into heaven. I'd just be like, "Nuh nuh. I saw you jam your sister's vibrator in your ass, Reverend Graham. You're out."

Mr. Black:

How many body fluids can you expel at the same time? I guess you could cry, sneeze, vomit, piss and shit all at once. The total number is limited by the number of orifices but the combinations can be endless as some orifices are capable of expelling more than one body fluid. I bet you could keep a super computer busy for weeks calculating all the possible outcomes.

You could bleed as well, so that would get you up to six simultaneous excretions. Can you sneeze and vomit simultaneously? I think I'd like to see that filmed. At the very least, your nose could run. And perhaps saliva exits your mouth with the vomit, so that's seven fluids. And if you had a boil you had left unattended, that's pus to make it eight. And you could be lactating. That's nine. I believe that's called Tasting The Rainbow, and surely my Deviancy Vision sunglasses could find out if you were into having that sort of thing done onto your chest.

D. Parker:

I'm in South Carolina on a family vacation and as I was at the beach today, I was wondering if anyone else does this.... While in the ocean, do you ever crawl back onto the beach then exhaustingly plunge down on the sand as if you were Tom Hanks in Castaway and after days lost at sea and have finally found land?

Oh, yes. I sure do. I fall onto that towel like I just got shot by Germans at Normandy. "Oh, it's so rough out there! I'm so exhausted from all that turbo-charged surf lounging!"

I also make it a point, when exiting the ocean, to imagine myself as Godzilla emerging from the water to lay waste to entire cities. I drag my hands behind me and everything. I am the Kraken… UNLEASHED. GRAHHHHHHH I WILL STOMP YOUR BUILDINGS AND EAT YOUR WOMEN!

Then there's the whole ocean entering process, which is fun. I like it when there are multiple people at the beach gradually walking deeper into the water, doing it very slowly because it's all cold and shit. What I like to do is go running into the water and then dive in headfirst, just so that everyone at the beach knows I do not fear frigid waters. Look at my nipples! These are the nipples of a man who just made the ocean his BITCH. I also like diving under the water and then rising up and flinging my head back and saying AHHHHHHH, like I'm on the cover of a romance novel. Ever do that thing where you run your hand from the front of your hair to the back to get some of the water out? That's a total Fabio move. The ocean rules.

Fennis Tembo:

I am happily married, employed and current on all my bills. What in the fuck makes you think I would answer a call from "UNAVAILABLE"?

No shit. There no surer sign an automated survey is coming your way.

Banks:

If you were to take Ex-Lax and Immodium at the same time, which one would win?

America. America would win.

S.R. Vaughn:

Have you ever had daydreams that you where in some sort of car wreck or a tree hit you in the head so hard that after you got out of the hospital, you had the ability to do something you could not do before? Mine is play guitar. A tree hits me and I can play guitar like Stevie Ray in two weeks. This thought rarely escapes my brain. I wouldn't mind it either if it came true.

This is why superhero movies can usually be so frustrating. I watched Spiderman and Peter turns into Spiderman because this one spider bites him. And so after that, every time I saw a spider walking around, I'd think to myself, "Say, maybe that's the magic spider that can give me super wallcrawling powers if I just let him bite my hand." But there's NO magic spider like that anywhere. And man, that is just horribly disappointing. At least, with Batman and Iron Man, I know they're superheroes because they're unfathomably rich in a way I can never be. But I could definitely be bitten by a radioactive spider. Or exposed to a freakish gamma ray explosion that turns my skin green and allows me to leap five miles at a time. But does it happen? Nooooooo. Fucking superhero movies are worse cockteases than your local Stagedoor Johnny's.

By the way, apropos of nothing, why HASN'T an eccentric billionaire tried to become a superhero yet? Paul Allen is clearly a bored rich guy. He shouldn't be buying sports teams and giant yachts. He should be having a military contractor design an indestructible exoskeleton that lets him go places and fuck shit up. Goddamn rich people. They never do good things with their money. Fucking malaria nets. THE WORLD NEEDS SOMETHING COOLER THAN THAT, BILL GATES.

BKJ:

So today, I unknowingly almost walked in on my 16 year old brother and his girlfriend. He stopped me before I walked in and we both quickly realized that should our Mom find out he'd be shipped off to a sweatshop in Malaysia. We also agreed that if I cover for him, he has to do anything I ask.

He's already agreed to do all my chores around the house until I leave for college in 2 months, but I feel this is a golden opportunity I can't waste. So I'm asking you to give me some ideas on what other shit I can make him do for me.

Nothing. Don't even make him do your chores for you. Don't extort him in any way, shape or form. Just cover for him, without question. I'm not saying you should do this to be a good person. I'm saying you should do this because your little brother will fucking worship you for the rest of your life. You'll never do wrong again in his eyes. You could have made him do your chores, but you didn't. God dammit, that is Drew Brees cool. He'll pay you back in a million little ways over the long term.

I'm a younger brother, which means I never had a younger brother of my own to introduce to beer and weed, or have look up to me any time I brought home a hot chick and nailed her upstairs (this never happened, but we're dealing with hypotheticals anyway, so I may as well make them enjoyable), or lend my Camaro to when he was in a real pinch. I would have dug being a kickass older brother. Don't fuck up your chance.

Time for a GREAT MOMENT IN POOP HISTORY. Reader Kerry sends in this story I call Wall Street 2: MONEY NEVER POOPS.

One day at work my boss took me out for lunch to Taco Bell. I had just gone to a concert the night before so I was feeling pretty hungover most of the day and had yet to take any sort of post drinking poo. For a brief second I thought maybe this wasn't a great idea, but the allure of sweet sweet chalupas was far too enticing.

Lunch went off without a hitch and the same for the car ride back to the office. In fact, it was a solid hour after getting back before any rumblings emerged. But as soon as they started, they came on like the Jumanji stampede. I quickly got up and walked with clenched cheeks towards the restrooms. The men's room at my place of employment has a door outside of the door with a hall about 30 feet long between the two.

This hall has no windows or doors and there are only two other dudes in my office, so I figured I was fairly safe starting the pants removal process. Plus by this time it was becoming quite evident that I was going to need every extra second I could pick up. So just as I am coming through the second door, pants being held up around my thighs, my sphincter gives way to nasty, post-Taco Bell, post-PBR-bender explosion. I mean it's all over my underwear, the inside of my pants, down my legs, running into my shoes...everywhere.

This all goes down directly in front of my boss who was washing his hands as I came pooping in. We made eye contact briefly before he looked down and said, "JESUS CHRIST!". I ran/waddled into one of the stalls and sat there until 6PM when I was sure no one was left in the office before making my poopy escape. I've called in sick everyday since and have no idea if I'll have a job when I finally do decide to show my face again.