Our Resident Sex Addict Settles A Bet Regarding Decuple PenetrationS

Time for your weekly edition of the Deadspin Funbag. Find more of Drew's stuff at KSK or on Twitter. Today, we're covering AWESOME NEW FUNBAG PRIZES THAT WILL DAZZLE YOU AND YOUR KIN, and more.

Before we get to the funbag, a quick announcement: From now on, every funbag will end with the Email Of The Week. The person who sends the winning email each week gets a prize. IT'S TRUE! Not only do you get to experience the glory of being immortalized forever in funbag form, but you also get a random object that's been cluttering up AJ's desk for a month! KUDOS TO YOU!

Now, your letters:

Acer:

So we were at a party in high school and somehow the topic of how many guys a girl could service simultaneously came up. One guy said 3, another said maybe 5. I started doing some creative thinking and explained that I thought 10 was possible. In our drunken stupor we decided to place $100 on it. I had until my 30th bday (we were 17-18 at the time) to prove on film that a girl could service 10 guys at once. We wrote up contracts and me and my friend who made the bet still have them in our wallets to this day.

Well my 30th bday is in 6 days and I need some help from the Deadspin peeps to see if they can help me find this. I know it's a longshot, but I'd rather not pay out the $100.

If you're curious as to how I came up with 10:
1 in each hand (2)
1 on each foot (4)
2 in the vagina (6)
1 in the butt (7)
2 in the mouth (9)
1 on the boobs (10)

It might take some midgets and what not, but it's possible right?

A copy of my contract is attached for everyone's amusement (above).

I assume it's possible, because anything is possible in the world of porn. I'm sure there's film of something similar out there, and that I would gladly pay $100 to NEVER see it. Ever. But your list certainly brings up questions. For example, the one on the boobs. Boobs, while very nice, cannot actively service a man. If you count boobs as a way of servicing a fellow, then couldn't a woman just have 40 dicks rubbing against her anywhere on her body and have it count as "servicing"?

The only way to service a man with your boobs is by pressing them together, which means this poor woman (and really, I feel horrible for her already) has to press her boobs together while holding a penis in each hand. So she'd have one guy straddling her for that, two guys off to the side getting handies (but drawn in very close to help the guy getting the boob rub), two guys at the head of the bed getting the mouth, two guys between her legs working the hooha, and two men at the foot of the bed getting what I presume is the most erratic footjob in history. Then I suppose she can be lying on top of the butt guy.

I asked Deadspin resident recovering sex addict and former Gentle Path patient Cockeye Jones if he had ever seen a video of such a thing. Because if anyone were to come across that kind of video, it would be him. This is what he said:

The most I've seen is 6 or 7 but I'd say it's possible, though only with extremely efficient positioning of the male performers — and only if said performers didn't mind some euro-style dick friction. Think about it: double vaginal, double anal - that's pretty standard and makes 4 dicks. Then the woman could feasibly do 2 in each hand — bringing us to 8, with two left to suck. Or any other combination thereof. I am paying 20 cents a minute to answer this question at a Kinko's. I should call my sponsor.

As you can see, Cockeye introduces us to the idea of two in the can at the same time (the idea that this is "pretty standard" is… yeah, guhhhhhh). So then, with that in mind, could one woman do 11 guys at once? And what if she has an open wound that could be used? You know what? This is incredibly, horribly unpleasant. I kinda want to go throw up now. I'm not finding that for you. This will teach you to make complex orgy derivative bets at age 17. You're gonna have to eat that hundred bucks. Unless you're willing to take double anal penetration from two dudes I know who work down at the loading dock.

Matt:

Stores like Home Depot and Lowe's, at least the ones in Minnesota, are set up for one-way entrances and exits. I am a fat lazy fuck, which leaves me with a dilemma: there's a walk (never mind that it's 50 yards) either to or from my car. Parking in between the entrance and exit seems like a reasonable compromise, but 1) everyone parks there, and 2) I wouldn't be writing to you if I were into reasonable compromises. What's a fat lazy fuck to do?

Oh, I hate that setup. That's like going to Ikea and realizing you have to wind your way through the whole fucking store display before you can taste fresh air again. They set that place up like it's a goddamn art exhibit. TERRIFYING.

Anyway, the answer is to always park closer to the exit, and take the initial long walk to the entrance. Obviously, you want your car closer to the exit in case you have a giant pile of shit you have to roll or carry out. It's far preferable to parking all the way over by the entrance or in the middle. Also, stepping into any Home Depot or Lowe's will instantly drain your will to live by 86%. That's a FACT. By the time you're exiting any store like that, you are little more than the molted, discarded skin of a human being. The idea of going through a home Depot and then having to walk another 50 yards is enough to make a grown man cry. And rightfully so. Triple that agony if you have children in tow. Do the 50-yard walk at the beginning of your visit, when you have the energy.

By the way, does anyone else become instantly tired after spending three minutes in a museum? I walk into any museum of any kind and I am fucking EXHAUSTED after taking 10 steps. I yawn constantly. My feet start to ache. I scan the place for an open bench to lie down on, but they've all been occupied by old people who may have died halfway through the audio tour. Museums are like a magical cistern of fatigue.

Nate:

Do you organize the money in your wallet? I go in order of value, of course, but also age. If I have three five-dollar-bills, the oldest, nastiest one is in front. Why? I want to rid myself of the bills that are ugly. It's like a caste system in my wallet. I feel like the guy who owned Studio 54 or something, as if I only accept the most lovely of bills to stay in my wallet for any amount of time. It's to the point where, when I get change, I immediately judge the bills. If I see an ugly 20, I think "well, I guess I WILL go to Target and spend some cash today!"

The worst, to me, is when you get a bill that's been slightly torn. I feel a fierce urgency to get rid of any torn bill, just in case I find a way to tear it further, ripping it in half in a bizarre pocket accident and rendering it utterly worthless. I also have an odd fear that a bill that has been slightly torn is already in danger of being rejected as legal tender. This has NEVER happened to me, of course. I've never forked over a slightly torn five and then had the cashier reject it. BUT HE COULD. If my bill is torn or someone drew on it with a fucking marker, I will make a conscious effort to rid myself of it.

There's something nice about getting a brand new bill from the ATM. One that's in mint condition. It's worth exactly the same as the one that someone drew a pentagram on, but it feels like it totally is worth more. Like, you could take it to the department store, and the cashier will be so stunned by the bill's beauty that he'll deem it worth 10 extra dollars on the open collector's market.

I organize the cash in my wallet by denomination. At no time in my life have I EVER known the precise amount of cash in my wallet before double-checking my wallet to count. I always do that. I'll ask my wife, "Say, do I have any cash?" Then I'll open up the wallet and count it up out loud, as if she could possibly care. And if I have more money than I thought, then I feel like I somehow WON that extra money. "I totally thought I had 10 bucks. But I have 40! THE MONEY FAIRY STRIKES AGAIN!" Then there's the flipside, when you wake up after a night of drinking. You took $100 out at the ATM, and you assumed you'd have a couple twenties left, but you have fucking NONE. That is a horrible feeling. I also get annoyed when I think I have a free single or two for a vending machine, only to realize I have nothing of the sort in my wallet. BUT I WANTED A CLARK BAR. FUCK.

Roger:

Whenever there's a product that I enjoy and buy frequently, especially food or drink, I wonder if I'm one of the leading consumers of that product in my area. I usually figure that somebody out there has me beat, but I wonder if I'm in the top five. No way there are five people out there eating Yogurt Burst Cheerios more often than me. I would give anything to be able to call up the rankings on these things whenever I want. I don't really want to see the Popov rankings for my area, however.

Even if you really like Yogurt Burst Cheerios, I think you'd still probably fall somewhere close to average for people who happen to like and buy that product. You can't be the only one who likes it, because the store wouldn't keep selling it if you were the only fucker buying it. You alone could not support the entire Sperm-Blasted Cheerios line, be it Strawberry or Original flavor.

But you're right. It would be fun to see your lifetime stats for grocery store items purchased. Because what if General Mills really WAS depending on you to keep that particular line of products alive? Then you could leverage that knowledge against them. You could even get yourself a COUPON! That would be tits. You could also see what item you spend the most on, or what item you purchased in the highest quantity. You might think it's Yogurt Burst Cheerios. But imagine your dismay when it turns out that the correct answer is Crystal Light. Imagine how gay you'll feel THEN. I'd also like to see lifetime stats for pounds of food consumed. My total consumption of bananas and sausage is probably quite disturbing.

I get both angry and sad when the grocery store no longer carries a product I like. I feel like I failed the product. They don't have Honey Nut Chex at our Giant anymore. That's on me. I could have saved you, Honey Nut Chex. If I had just not taken you for granted when I had you.

Trader Joe's, incidentally, is the worst store in the universe for discontinued products. Because those products are almost all proprietary. You never see them again. And Trader Joe can just rip them away from you at any time, with NO FUCKING EXPLANATION. They had an awesome mole sauce they used to sell, which spared me from having to hire a 78-year-old Mexican woman to make it for me by grinding up 57 ingredients with her feet in a plastic bucket. Then they discontinued the product because they got rid of everything made in China. You listen to me, you fuckers. I don't care if the Chinese put battery acid in that shit, which they almost certainly did. Give me back my mole.

Mark S. From Boston:

Can being an NFL head coach be THAT hard? I mean, obviously if you went out on the field and played quarterback, you'd get wrecked. But coaching is a whole other beast. That lacks athletic skill, which works for me. I feel my play calling would be decent, but would easily turn it over to my coordinators if that didn't work. In fact, I'd turn most of my shit over to my coordinators, anyway. Game management (time outs, etc.) would be solid after playing Madden for a decade. Plus, I'm a rather likable guy and a leader, so the players would probably like me. Plus, I'm kind of eloquent, so throw a microphone in front of me at a press conference and I'll rattle off all the "We just gotta execute in all facets of the game on Sunday," bullshit. I could take over a decent roster and go 8-8, easy.

No, you couldn't. You really couldn't. You'd get destroyed. Particularly if you have no background, no resume to speak of, and are coming in completely cold to the process. I'm not gonna defend the Brad Childresses of the world, because Brad Childress is fucking horrible. But there are numerous guys like him out there, who have spent their whole lives studying football and working in football, and even THEY fuck up the end of games. What prayer do you have of doing any better? Because you played Madden? You can PAUSE Madden. Everything seems easy until you have to do it, and that includes figuring out whether or not to burn a timeout with millions of people watching you and players and coaches looking to YOU for guidance.

This is why I like being a fan. I like maintaining the illusion that I'm way fucking smarter than some asshole coach. But, deep in my heart, I know damn well that if you forced me to walk that sideline, I would make the EXACT same horrible mistakes that the Les Mileses of the universe make. In fact, I'd find even BIGGER ways to fuck up. I'd be unable to work the headset. I'd spill water all over my shirt. I'd trip over all the wires cluttering up the sideline. I go to football games as a fan and I lose track of the score and the clock sometimes. I have NO other job as a fan at a game other than to watch the stupid thing. Yet even I lose track of that shit. I can't even imagine how hard it is to keep track of basic things when you have to spend three hours coordinating between five zillion people. Everything changes when the spotlight is on you, even if you fancy yourself the fucking VP of Common Sense or whatever asshole title you think of. This isn't a defense of someone like Wade Phillips. He sucks. But just because he sucks doesn't mean there are millions of people out there who could do it any better. There aren't. If there were, you'd be coaching Dallas by now.

Then there's the actual business of being a head coach. Coaches work 100-hour weeks. They're never allowed a moment to rest. Ever. And they have to study tape. I had to study tape when I rode the bench. It's the most boring thing ever. You could put me in a fucking jail cell and force me to listen to Rob Thomas records for the rest of my life, and I still wouldn't be as bored as I am watching tape. Being a coach is the worst fucking job in the world outside of being president, which is why only idiotic assholes end up being coaches or presidents.

HALFTIME!

Aaron D:

I have an office on the third floor of a small office building. Luckily I have a window. Unluckily, I have a flagman from a near-by parking lot (attempting to lure cars to park there) who may be the loudest and most sincere whistler on the face of the earth. He sounds like he's standing on my desk and he's three floors below me. Though he has an amazing repertoire, (the Miami Sound Machine's Conga, the Barber of Seville, the Star Spangled Banner, Flight of the Bumblebee, California Girls, You Must Have Been a Beautiful Baby, the Mickey Mouse song, Isn't She Lovely, etc.,) it grinds on me after 6 straight hours everyday. And, not only are they marathon whistling sessions, he gets caught in a loop of two or three songs that he just rotates for three hours. It's the world's worst iTunes playlist of whistled covers, stuck on repeat. He makes me want take his flag and beat him with it so he doesn't have any lips left to whistle.

Holy shit, that sounds awful. I assume this parking lot is privately owned, which means you should get the contact info for both the parking lot owner and the owner of the building or parcel of land where the lot is located. Then you can write a very sternly worded letter to them about just how awful the whistler is. Be sure to use company letterhead, so it sounds all official and shit. People are terrified of sternly written letters on company letterhead. Take it from someone who's gotten his fair share of C&D letters. I'll cave to anyone.

Then I'd call the police. They might beat him with nightsticks, which would be cool.

Nick:

Doesn't it seem like people with kids think they're better and more mature than those who do not have children?

That's because we are. It's a fair tradeoff. You childless fuckers get freedom. I get to look down on you and feel like a deeper, more well-rounded person. That smugness all I really have left. Now come here so I can fart on your head.

Steve:

The other day I was thinking about all the hapless sports franchises out there, struggling for cash/attendance/relevancy, etc. when it hit me. I know how to make a million dollars for these struggling teams.

Hold a skeet lottery.

Find one or two willing guys on the team, lets say it's the Pirates or the Indians, and have them donate sperm. Then, hold a lottery. In my estimation, many women in the market for some spare skeet would be interested in this. The winner of the lottery gets the athlete's skeet, thereby ensuring high quality genetics.

Why bother involving the team at all? Why not auction off your sperm independently and take all the profits? No need to involve the team at all. If you're a white athlete, that sperm could go for MILLIONS on the open market. Imagine all the rich Boston lawyers just dying for a little Welker to call their own. You could make a mint. Sure, it's almost certainly illegal and deeply unethical. But fuck that.

In fact, if you were an athlete, you could create an entire self-paying industry around your skeet. Let's say you like banging groupies, but you don't like to use a rubber. Instead of living in constant fear of baby mommas, you could turn it to your advantage. You could announce that you fully intend to impregnate one lucky groupie and be its baby daddy. Then, you would charge every woman $10 to enter the drawing. You could then bang the winner until conception takes hold, THEN use the total contest entry money to pay the incurring child support. IT'S A FLAWLESS PLAN THAT COULDN'T POSSIBLY GO AWRY.

Kid Presentable:

On my drive to work this morning, I realized that my car's odometer was at 59,998 miles. I may have run a red light and possibly hit a kid while looking at the road for a total of four seconds, but goddamn it felt good watching that thing click over to an even 60,000. Highlight of my day, really.

That's great hustle. I missed my current car hitting 150,000. I saw it at 149,997 and got all fucking excited, then I took my eyes off the odometer for a moment, forgot about it, then didn't glance back later until it was too late. Like missing your child's birth. Just an awful feeling. For reasons that escape me, I also wish my odometer were not digital. I much prefer the rolling odometer. I am a Quaker when it comes to mileage tallies.

Dryspell McDesert:

I am deployed in the Middle East. I have spent the last 2 months living in tents or huts with atleast 10 other people and showering in open bay middle school wrestling style showers. Throughout this whole time, my usual morning-wood has been non-existent. I can even count the number of No-Reason-Boners I've had on one hand. The same thing happened during a 5-week training, but after an intense rehab program with my wife, I was up and running again. With no time/privacy for self-love, I am starting to believe that if I don't use it, I just might lose it (and I have 6 months left over here).

Wait, does that mean the Chilean miners DIDN'T masturbate?

Tate Forcier's Weiner:

Were there any women on the Death Star? Where did everyone sleep?

Surely, this question was covered in the deleted scenes from Clerks. I assume everyone slept in military-style barracks, while Vader and the commanding officers had much fancier rooms where they could sleep and eat and jerk as they please. I assume they all enjoyed eating beef stew, because when Luke went to go visit Yoda in Empire, Yoda fucks with his dinner and that dinner totally looked like Dinty Moore. So whenever I see beef stew, I immediately think of Star Wars, which makes very little sense.

And no, there were no women on the Death Star. It's a military outpost. You wanna get laid, you gotta file for a week of and hit Jabba's sail barge. The Empire was an old school totalitarian regime. I doubt they'd be progressive enough to hire female storm troopers, regardless of how many wet dreams you may have had about a storm trooper pulling off his helmet and WHOA IT'S A PRETTY LADY!

My 4-year-old is batshit about Star Wars now and won't stop asking me questions about it. Only the questions make no fucking sense, so I can't answer them.

HER: Does Star Wars live in outer space?

ME: It's not a person. It's a movie. And it takes place in outer space.

HER: Why?

ME: Because outer space is way cool.

HER: Does Star Wars live in outer space?

ME: I JUST FUCKING ANSWERED THAT! EAT YOUR PRETZELS!

John:

Is 60 Minutes not the most horribly depressing show in the history of television? With its ticking clock, grey graphics and coverage of all the world's most terrible shit takes the cake. The ticking clock feels like it's counting down the seconds left in your weekend, before you have to go back to work/school.

The worst part is that they always show the promo at the end of the fun sporting event you were watching, which felt like getting slapped in the face by the dick of reality. You'd be watching some amazing overtime NFL game, and then they come on and announce, "for those of you expecting 60 Minutes, it will be seen at its regular time, except on the west coast." I always imagine some octogenarian shut-in, clutching his walker amid stacks of bundled newspapers and seething with rage that some foolish sporting event was keeping him from his weekly dose of horribly depressing news stories.

It's true. It's the most awkward handoff in the TV universe. And the worst part of it is that all the horribly depressing stories are presided over by horribly old people who are going to die soon (except Scott Pelley, who's kinda badass). So there you are on a Sunday night, presumably still fighting off your hangover. Chances are, you probably just finished napping, only now the sun is going down earlier in the day, so you wake up with it dark outside, just as Morley Safer is about to tell you the story of a Pakistani girl who got honor-raped 675 times (Cockeye Jones saw the video). It's thoroughly depressing in every way. Which is why I never watch it. Ever. Eisen and Deion for me!

When I was in college, they showed 60 Minutes on the TV in the school cafeteria. And that always made a hangover worse. You walk into the school cafeteria on a Sunday night at any college and the mood is always somber. Everyone feels like shit. No one's talking. Everyone knows they have to go do some fucking horrible paper they don't want to do. It's like walking into a dog funeral parlor.

Okay, so here's our first Email of the Week. It's from reader Roland T Flakfizer. Congrats, Roland. You win a signed copy of Michael Weinreb's Bigger Than The Game. Who's Michael Weinreb? I don't know. What's the book about? I don't know. But it's FREE, and you fucking won it. Send us your address and it's all yours. Have it bronzed, kid.

I used to always think of myself as being able to go back in time and hailed as a genius. My thinking was that being from the future would enable me to take advantage of all the things that I know now. Recently, however, I've come to the conclusion that if I headed back any more than 20-30 years (which seems to me to be the optimal amount of time to travel back in time), I'd be totally worthless.

Think about it: I couldn't go back to the early 1800s and tell them how my car works. I know nothing of the combustible engine - I probably couldn't even invent a bike if I tried. The same is true for any other technological advance I can think of off the top of my head: telephone, computers, or Internet. Heck even my somewhat awful typing skills couldn't be on display because the typewriter hadn't been invented yet.

Furthermore, I'd be terrible at all the things that they do on a daily basis: riding horses, churning butter, harvesting, soldiering. I'm pretty sure that if I was from the future, they'd just send me to a mental institution to be beaten.

And who's to say that would be the wrong move?