“Help! I Keep Dreaming About Banging My Mom!”

Time for your weekly edition of the Deadspin Funbag. Find more of Drew's stuff at KSK or on Twitter. Today, we're covering dreams, Playboy, dishwashing, happy endings, and more.

Hey, before we get to the letters, BRAD CHILDRESS WAS FIRED YESTERDAY! WOOHOO FUCK YEAH! SO LONG, CUNTGROPER! We're finally rid of you, YOU BALD ASSHOLE! Now my beloved Vikings can finally get around to drafting the wrong quarterback, losing key free agents, becoming as tightfisted as the Bills, and moving to Sacramento two years from now. CAN'T. FUCKING. WAIT.

Your letters:

Paul:

On about 3 or 4 occasions I've had a dream that I was fucking my mom. How fucking disgusting is that? I haven't had a dream like that in a very long time but I always remember the sickening feeling that I get when I wake up and realize that I had that dream the night before. Also, when I see her in the morning, I get this feeling that she like knows somehow. I can't even look at her in the eye. I seriously feel like cutting my fucking balls off.

Anyway, have you or anyone you've ever known had a dream like this or should I check in to a mental institution ASAP?

PS: A couple of times, I was really railing her. God help me.

I'm not a doctor or anything. My proctology license is only valid in Honduras, so I can't tell you what's normal about a certain dream and what isn't. But I will say this: I've certainly had my fair share of unwanted situations depicted in my dreams. They're fucking horrible. But dreams aren't meant to be taken literally. They're meant to be a representation of something else that's weighing on your subconscious. For example, this site says dreams about incest are a way of internally forgiving a family member. Knowing that, I'd just like to say to my brain: FUCK YOU VERY MUCH FOR TAKING A PLEASANT THOUGHT AND TWISTING IT INTO SOMETHING DISGUSTING JUST FOR YOUR OWN AMUSEMENT. YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE. Honestly, if you forgive a family member for something, can't you just dream about them hugging a bear or something? Horrible. Brains are FUCKED.

You should also take note that, when awake, you do NOT want to bang your mom. That's really all that should matter. You recognize the dream is gross. You'd never consciously do anything like that. What you decide with your conscious brain is all that should matter. Every man's mind comes up with unspeakable thoughts from time to time. But most of us possess the wisdom to discard those thoughts, like shitty ideas that never leave the drafting table. That's why you possess a conscious mind. To filter out all the nonsense. It doesn't mean you're a bad person. Unless you really do want to ream out your mom. Do you? Maybe you do. I BET YOU DO.

Jake:

I am fortunate to enough to currently be engaged to a girl who appeared in Playboy a few years ago. While this is awesome in every conceivable way, now that we've moved in together she would like to frame some pictures from her spread and put them up throughout the house. She is understandably proud of the pictures, but I don't love the idea of displaying her to all my friends, relatives, cable guy, etc. Am I being too much of a prude (as she has suggested) or is she a bit out of line here?

Well, I have two opinions on the subject:

One: LIAR! LIAR LIAR LIAR! YOU FUCKING LIAR! YOU LIE!

Two: This is what you get for getting engaged to a Playboy playmate, a girl who almost certainly possesses some measure of deeply held insecurity that has manifested itself in the fact that she derives self-worth from having other people stare at her exposed biscuit. That's the deal you make for signing on for that sweet Playmate tang, and it's not such a bad one, provided you're cool with being divorced fifteen years from now. And by then, YOU'LL TOTALLY BE OKAY WITH THE IDEA.

You both have a decent argument to make. She's understandably proud of the pictures, and openly displaying them is a way of defending against any kind of inner shame she may secretly harbor for doing the pictorial. Plus, she probably has awesome tits. Furthermore, keeping them off your walls doesn't mean they don't exist everywhere else. Anyone who wants to see your future wife naked only needs to do a Google Image Search. Banning the pictures from the house only tricks you into believing other guys aren't pulling up pictures of her and painting the monitor. That'll happen whether you like it or not. You'll have a cocktail party, and every guy you invite will still stare at your wife and think of that one shot of her bent over a chaise, her exposed onion booty out for anyone in need of immediate self-gratification. And you'll KNOW they'll be thinking of that, and they'll know that you'll know, and then you won't be in the mood for any more crab dip.

Then again, there is something to be said for not letting people stare at your wife's naked body in front of your face, and having them instead do it in the privacy of your bathroom while staring at an iPhone. I see your point there. But again, this is what you signed up for when you started going out with her. She was naked in public, and if you love her, you'll figure out a way to tolerate it. That's what love is. It's letting go and deciding to tolerate another person's bullshit.

Curt:

Not with a vanity plate, you're not.....Conformist.

“Help! I Keep Dreaming About Banging My Mom!”



I hope he scrawled CONFESSIONAL right on the dashboard.

Justin:

I was watching the game last night, and thought to myself, "if a gunman burst into the ESPN broadcast booth and shot Brent or Kirk halfway through the 2nd quarter, would ESPN stop broadcasting the game immediately?" Seriously, what would happen? Would the broadcast get cut off, followed by a minute of dead air until they switch to ESPNEWS for more information, or would they somehow finish the game? Furthermore, would they immediately evacuate the game or be quiet about it (not wanting to causing 80,000 people to turn into a frenzied mob)?

I think ESPN would immediately put up a graphic that said ESPN'S PAT FORDE: HERBSTREIT SHOT, have the game stopped until the gunman was apprehended, and then spend the next 72 hours covering their own shooting. The game itself would continue over at ESPN2. Lou Holtz and Mark May would then come on and inform you that Herbie could move back into life contention provided he get some help from other broadcasters, should they also suffer one gunshot. Some broadcasters might need to suffer TWO gunshots for Kirk to move back ahead of them. Should that fail to happen, Kirk's body would then be sent to a second-tier memorial service, probably in El Paso, presided over by a man in purple blazer.

NOTE: AJ relayed this question to the ESPN PR department. I'll let you know their answer.

UPDATE: They declined comment. And almost certainly called the police. Buzzkills.

Alex:

How would you rank the various dishes when it comes to washing the dishes? I say knives are the best. One quick swipe on both sides of the blade and we're moving on. For the same reason, spoons come in second. On the other end of the spectrum, huge trays and things that don't even fit completely in the sink, which results in water splashing off of them and hitting you, drenching your shirt, well that fucking blows.

But you know what's dead fucking last? Glasses. Fuck glasses. I can't fit my big meaty man hands to the bottom of the glass without bruising my knuckles, and not even then. If you come to my house, you're drinking bacteria out of the bottom of your glass. Ask for a bottle.

(And yes I'm high right now. Hooray for being between jobs.)

So we're talking about items that do NOT go in the dishwasher, right? Items that need to be thoroughly washed? I'll vote for giant trays and oversized pots. Glasses suck, but glasses usually don't get all that dirty (at least, to me they don't). You barely have to soap them up. But some goddamn pot that has an inch-thick layer of burnt cheese on the bottom? HELL ON FUCKING EARTH. My wife also used to have a coffeemaker with a metal filter. I fucking hated cleaning this filter. You could never get every last ground out of the fucking thing. And I don't even drink coffee. I resent cleaning any dish that was part of a beverage or meal I did not partake in. THAT'S YOUR FUCKING SHIT. YOU CLEAN IT UP.

I also hate rinsing or cleaning parts to a blender or food processor. This is why 90% of all food processors are never used. Some fuckface celebrity chef will tell you, "Oh, this recipe's easy! Just whack it in the food processor!" Well go fuck yourself, Jamie Oliver. You probably have some dickhead assistant who gets the job of trying to get that one last speck of pesto off the goddamn Cuisinart blade. The rest of us hate that shit.

I also vote for graters (I've grated off part of the dish brush on occasion), and slotted spoons, or any item that can trap food in a small space and requires extra attention to rinse or clean properly. I resent any item that takes the mindlessness out of doing dishes. Goddamn cunting blender.

UPDATE: BABY BOTTLES!

/smacks forehead

HALFTIME!

Anon:

The other day I had to climb up something without the use of a ladder to cut something down, and I was forced to carry the knife in my mouth. I imagined I was scaling a mountain to untie a dangling damsel in distress. But perhaps on the way up I encounter some dastardly goons on the mountainside and have no choice but to engage in a high-wire 5 on 1 Jon Wu knife fight. I defeat them while only sustaining a badass slash across my shoulder. I return the damsel to safety. Do we bang? Yes. Basically, climbing things with a knife in your mouth is invigorating.

I agree. I feel that way about carrying any object in my mouth: pens, screwdrivers, very large dildos. I especially like talking to people when said object is in my mouth. GRRRR HAND ME THAT RATCHET. I feel like a fucking wild man. Holding shit in my mouth also lets people know I'm a vigorous young go-getter who doesn't have time to merely carry things strictly by hand. Look at me carry two things in each hand AND use my mouth to hold the keys. AM I NOT A SWISS ARMY KNIFE IN HUMAN FORM?!

Evan:

I was in Vegas at the Palms this summer when I saw Floyd Mayweather sitting in the high limit room. So of course I pretend I am some sort of high roller and somehow get into the room and attempt to sit down at the table with him. Meanwhile he is surrounded by 4 huge 400-lb scary men. The ONLY thing on my mind was he is not looking and I could punch him full force in his head and be the first ever person to KO the champ. I would be famous and awesome.

I thought of the outcomes of this. #1: I get pummeled probably into a coma by his body guards. #2: I outrun all the body guards because they are huge and can't run to just be arrested, sued, and possibly go to jail. But at this point I am a celebrity so I would have a short jail session.

If you were given this situation to KO the world's best boxer and being the first person to ever do this, would you have done it knowing the consequences?

Hell no. Like you, I'd have to fight every urge in my system to go bonk him on the head just to see what happens, but there's no way I'd actually ACT on it. That would be lunacy. Your mind tricks you in that kind of situation. It seems like it would be easy to go up and cheap shot a celebrity in that instance. You think you can catch them off guard. But that's a lie. Someone like Mayweather is probably ALWAYS on guard. He's probably dealt with any number of dipshit assholes in casinos and bars who have gotten too drunk and tried to step to the champ. He KNOWS you're thinking about trying to hit him, or stick your dick in his ear when he isn't looking. He's well aware of this. By the time you're within five feet of him, you've already given yourself away.

I think the end result would be getting pummeled by the body guards AND being thrown in jail for a longass time. Not saying it isn't worth it, though. You should totally try it.

Casey:

I stopped in Lebanon, MO for gas during a road trip. The gas station had one of those knock-the-quarters-off-the-shelf games, only this one had some additional prizes to sweeten the deal. Yes, that's a St Louis Cardinals bottle opener / nail clipper (a disgusting combo) next to a bitchin' Nazi knife.

“Help! I Keep Dreaming About Banging My Mom!”



DAMN. That IS one bitchin' Nazi switchblade. I think that's great. Every child's game should include one rogue Nazi prize. The Big Claw machine should have a nazi panda sitting in the easiest spot for cherry-picking. You'd have to resolve the conflict in your mind of really wanting a prize versus NOT wanting a Nazi artifact. I think the urge to win free shit would win out.

Tim:

I was recently driving near Monument, Oregon for work and cell phone reception was spotty at best. At one point, my phone buzzed and said I had 3 new voicemails, but then I had no reception for 45 more minutes of driving. The whole time I was thinking of what horrors those messages contained. Was there a fire? Oh no! Is someone dead? Terrorist attack? The IRS is attaching my bank accounts? Nope, just people calling to see how it was going or ask unimportant questions. I was strangely disappointed, am I crazy?

Nah. I don't think so. I, like most people, communicate with most everyone via email and texting now. The only reason people call now (unless it's the Mrs.) are for really shitty things. So I treat virtually any call from an unknown number as an obvious sign that something fucking horrible has happened. Someone died. My health insurance was cut. I've made the county's sex offender registry. If it was serious enough for you to call me and not email me, then it's probably gonna fucking suck.

As you can tell, I'm someone who goes out of his way to avoid serious discussions of virtually any topic. Serious issues give me a fucking headache. So I've been known to not check voicemails for days, simply because I don't want to deal with whatever horrible shit is contained therein. I bet it's someone asking me to fill out a form. AND FAX IT. Fucking nightmare.

BB:

My best friend is currently serving in Afghanistan. He will have a few weeks leave next month and will be coming back to the States for some well deserved R&R before going back to finish his tour. I want to thank him for his service to our country by taking him to one of those late-night Asian massage parlors so that he can really relax on his time off.

Here is my question: I have never been to one of these establishments, so I have no idea how you are supposed to pay for their "service." Is it just understood that if I take him to one of these places they will give him a happy ending, or do I have to arrange for such an action beforehand? How much are you supposed to tip the masseuse? Should I be worried about getting arrested for this?

Looking around the interwebs, it appears you should look for masseuses, and not massage therapists. You should also ask if they require "Draping." If they don't, that means you're on a one-way trip to Bonertown. This lady seems to know the drill. There doesn't seem to be a uniform cost to a hanj, but I have to think they offer some form of discount should you present a military ID and/or Cosi card.

Time for the Email of the Week. Step up to the tips line, Wade. You just won yourself a free book: Da Bears, by Steve Delsohn. NICE!

Wade:

So I was watching the History Channel special about 9/11 late last night and they kept showing explosions and planes crashing. I was getting pretty worked up hearing people tell their stories, firefighters in the towers, family members of United 93, etc. Needless to say I was ready to slay some terrorists at the fucking drop of a hat. As I slowly drifted to sleep, hoping to dream about a terrorist attack and my heroic thwarting of their evil plan, I heard a brief squealing of tires and then BBBBBBBBAAAAAAAAMMMMMMMMMMMMMM!!!!!!

It literally sounded like a plane had crashed into my apartment building. I sat up in bed and thought, it's happening, these motherfuckers are hitting us again. I'd like to tell you that I jumped out of bed, grabbed the shotgun that I have under my bed Alonzo Harris style and went outside to investigate. I have no such shotgun and the truth is I couldn't move. I was frozen for about 2 minutes which seemed like 20. I heard voices outside which I couldn't make out. Did they send back p? Just to make sure the building burned to ground and every American inside went with it?

I stood up to listen and heard people speaking English and thought, HOLY SHIT, they've got sleeper cells in the states training Americans in their terrorist ways. Now mind you, I was in shock this entire time and let me tell you, the mind does some crazy shit when in shock. When I finally gained some of my bearings, I actually processed what the people outside were saying. One was going on about how he wasn't going to leave the scene and holy shit I can't believe that just happened. So then I knew it was probably some drunks and they crashed. I put clothes on and reluctantly went outside and discovered a car had driven into the apartment next to mine. It was literally 25 feet from crushing me on my bed. Just thinking about that freaked me the fuck out. I called 911 and then walked over and just kept thinking, there is a car inside that apartment. The driver, a soldier in town for training, fled and the passenger, a firefighter, was hammered and stayed and talked to the cops. Long story short, the car just missed crushing a woman on her couch. They caught the driver. He was hammered too. And I am completely mentally unprepared for a terrorist attack.

More prepared than the driver, though.