The Fundamental Rule Of Public MasturbationS

Time for your weekly edition of the Deadspin Funbag. Find more of Drew's stuff at KSK or on Twitter. Today, we're covering headphones, stoves, old crushes, the Subway guy, and more.

If you're at a gym and you put your shit in a locker and you don't put a lock on that locker, don't you deserve to have all your shit taken out of that locker and burned in front of you? I say yes. Nothing worse than a seemingly available gym locker that turns out to be taken by some shithead who can't spring for a Master combo lock. Your letters:

Jim:

What are the ethics of working one out in the gym shower? I recognize that even asking probably makes me unfit to live in society, and I also know that I share these showers with my coworkers, most of whom are ok people. On the other hand, (1) I'm already stuck standing around with my dick (figuratively) in my hand for 5 minutes anyways, (2) in the very back of our minds, I think we all know that almost any public shower we use has been skeeted in at some point, probably recently.

The gym isn't very busy, and the showers have floor to ceiling shower curtains that snap shut, so there's no risk I'd be caught. This is more of a high level philosophical/moral question.

I have been asked this question in various forms many times over the years. Is it okay to jerk at work? Is it okay to jerk while driving? Is it okay to jerk at the gym? As someone who may or may not have indulged in all three of those things, let me state my personal philosophy on such matters. If you have a confined space to yourself, THAT IS ACCEPTABLE JERKING SPACE. In other words, is no one else around? Will anyone see you? Will anyone hear your grunts of mild ecstasy as you force yourself on yourself? No? Then jerk away. Jerking off is a basic male function. It's not strictly the domain of perverts and weirdoes. Every man jerks off. And every man gets the occasional ill-timed boner which he needs to immediately dispose of. I don't judge, so long as I am not within eyeshot or earshot of you doing your business.

If you're jerking in a stall at Barnes and Noble because you saw some girl with an incredible ass rocking yoga pants in the kids section and I walk in while you're jerking it, YOU ARE REQUIRED BY LAW TO STOP MID-JERK. That's just how it works. That's the risk you take. You either stand there and hold that boner until I walk back out, or you zip it up and blueball yourself. There has to be some decorum here. You can't just whip it out and go to town no matter who's around. That's when the line gets crossed.

I have a recurring dream when I go to sleep, and that is the dream where I'm in a public spot and I take off my pants and start going to town with people standing right fucking there. And everyone is like, "Why is Drew jerking off in front of me? Isn't that weird?" And I'm like, "Yeah, why am I doing this? Oh well. JERK JERK JERK." And then I wake up and I'm horrified the dream was real and everyone saw me handling my afterburner and I have to sit there for a moment and convince myself that I did not just pull a Charles Haley in public. It's a horrible moment. I have issues.

Nastykjn:

Every once in awhile I'll be listening to my earbuds with my iPhone in my pocket, reach for something, and accidentally catch the wire. This not only pulls the earbuds out of my ears but does so with a force that may be likened to the soul being ripped from the body. I do this at least once a week and every time it happens I am overcome with a rage that would allow me to beat down and a$$rape all four horsemen of the apocalypse.

Sometimes it happens when I'm standing at the urinal and I watched with dread as my precious sound giving earbuds are hurled toward a seething pool of piss and spit.

It's even worse if it happens when you're working out. This has happened to everyone, where you're on a treadmill or something, and your hand catches the headphone wire and violently rips the headphones out of your head and sends them down to the ground. And then you're so shocked that it all happened so fast that you nearly trip on the treadmill and decapitate yourself. It's a horrifying moment, because then everyone in the gym turns and stares you. Look at him! It's the guy who doesn't know how to use headphones! Way to go, fuckface! Horrible. Ruins my day instantly.

I've taken to putting my headphone wires BEHIND my head whenever I use them. That way, my big fat arms don't somehow hook around the wire and ruin my shit. So far, so good. But it'll happen to me again one day. I know it will. And when it does, I will break some shit.

Jay:

My wife is insane and wants a second kid. I've been trying to knock her up for a few months without any luck, and we recently reached the point where it was my turn to get tested.

I entered Male Collection Room No. 3 and saw the stacks of dirty magazines and porn flicks. I began rifling through the DVDs and setting aside candidates for the best one for the task. But as I opened the DVD cases I'd selected, one after the other, THEY WERE ALL FUCKING EMPTY BECAUSE SOME FUCKING ASSHOLE STOLE ALL THE GOOD PORN.

Is taking pornos from an infertility clinic's whacking room a serious violation, or was I stupid and should have shoved like 20 porn mags and the rest of the DVDs in my backpack before I got the fuck out of there?

Well, if someone did it before you, then that makes it okay! Seriously though, that seems like a gross violation of common courtesy. Poor Jay here was looking forward to having a legitimate excuse to watch pornography, perhaps the only time in his marriage where that would have been the case, and some ruffian goes and makes off with the Ass Worship! FIEND!

I have a confession to make. I steal magazines from doctor's and dentist's offices all the time. Not porn, obviously, because they don't stock the waiting room with porn (though a friend of mine in New York once claimed his dentist had Playboy in the waiting room, which I found hard to believe). But sometimes I'll see a magazine I want to read later and I'll just roll that shit up and walk out with it. My wife has noticed me do this before, as has my mom. In both instances, they made me go back to the office and put the magazine back on the shelf, which I vehemently resisted.

My argument is that doctors overcharge for everything anyway, so no harm in making off with a three-dollar magazine. It's my lollipop. Besides, I subscribe to SI (no, I don't know why) and sometimes an issue will not arrive. At all. It just up and disappears in the mail for no good reason. And I can't stand the idea of not having that missing issue, but I'll be goddamned if I'm gonna pay extra money for it. The solution? Dr. Freemags. BOOSH!

Kyle:

What is the old timey equivalent of sexting? What would Mickey Mantle do to show a lady his package? Or in those simpler times did he just grab a dame and go to town?

Yeah, I think so. Remember, Mickey Mantle lived in the Golden Age of sexual harassment. If you wanted to whip your dick out in front of a woman back then and rub it against her, that was perfectly legal. Or so I would assume. What was the woman gonna do back then? Complain? Please. Women couldn't even VOTE back then. Honey, you're lucky a man is nice enough to rub his cock against you. You should be grateful you found good husband material. Now get back in that kitchen and make him some prime rib!

Seriously though, people back then were horrible. Compared to the old days, sending a cock shot to someone is downright classy.

Chazz:

In order to get to my office via elevator I need to first insert and turn a tiny key next to the button for my floor. I don't exaggerate when I tell you that sometimes this mundane process is the highlight of my day. Something about it reminds me of the movies where some type of bad-ass weapon needs to armed with a key before it can be fired. Often times I fantasize about having just concluded a serious moral debate as I turn the key with a great sense of resignation; then close my eyes as I hit the button. "May god forgive us," I imagine whispering to myself as some subordinate tells me that turning Paris into a radioactive crater was the only way to save the human race from the zombie-apocalypse.

I have found that virtually every hotel I stay at now has two or three designated floors on top that you can access only by inserting a key card into the elevator slot. These are the VIP rooms, and I always get extremely jealous and hateful whenever I share an elevator with someone who has access to those floors. Like they're so fucking special. I see how you put your card key in all triumphant like that, Mister. Think you're better than me, do you? WELL FUCK YOU BITCH. Now I'm gonna masturbate in this elevator and you'll have to WATCH.

On the flipside, I did once stay on one of these restricted floors, and it was glorious. I felt like royalty. THIS FLOOR IS MINE.

Tim:

What's the job with the best parking situation? I say road construction worker. You pull up, get out, and you're there. I'm always so jealous that these people can just park their car wherever they want, and drive on those completed, yet unopened roads. Too bad the actual job sucks, or I'd be signing up.

Well, obviously being a cop trumps that, because you can park pretty much anywhere and it won't matter. I've long dreamed of being able to park in front of a fire hydrant, and cops get to do just that. I don't know why I'm always surprised when a seemingly open space has a hydrant in front of it, but I still fall for it EVERY FUCKING TIME. "Oooh! That spot looks perf… FUCKING HYDRANT! HOW COULD I BE SO GULLIBLE?!"

The fun thing about the construction workers is that they know they can park any way they like, and so they do. You never see an orderly parking arrangement at a road work area. Motherfuckers just drove up and left their trucks there as haphazardly as humanly possible. I can't blame them.

HALFTIME!

Steven:

So I consider myself a pretty big fan of music and to that end I can without a doubt say that my least favorite band of all time is the Eagles, and my least favorite song of all time is Hotel California.

Two weeks ago I found myself face to face with the subject of my hatred and I totally pussied out. The story is that due to some random circumstance at my job, the details don't matter and would surely bore you and your readers, I found myself at an all day meeting at this recording studio in NYC. The idea was that to better understand sound quality we were going to watch a demo of a real life musician in the studio. Seeing as how I've never been in a studio, I was pretty pumped, I was dying to check out the sound board and ask what all those fucking knobs really did.

So the time comes for the musical performance and my group, only about 10 people, gets introduced to Don Felder, who is going to play some tunes and sing some lyrics. Don who? Don Felder, the lesser known member of The Eagles who actually wrote Hotel California. Holy shit. On one hand I'm standing next to a world famous musician, a rock and roll hall of famer, who is playing one of the most well known songs of all time, he literally is like 2 feet away from me. On the other hand, it's a fucking Eagle playing that horrible song. Now if I were any sort of man I would seized this golden opportunity to tell him what I really thought. Did I? Of course not, I totally geeked out and shook his hand and even got a signed CD, that now sits in the trunk of my car. So yeah, I pussied out. What would you have done?

I would have done the same thing. That's just common courtesy. You can't actually go up to the guy and tell him you think his song is fucking terrible. That makes YOU the asshole. Besides, he's probably even sicker of that song than you are (I too despise "Hotel California"). But that's what being polite is all about. It's about LYING. Straight up, bald-faced lying to another person. You never tell anyone the truth. For example, if you meet a girl and she has an ugly dress on, you don't say to her, "God, that dress is awful." That would make you a fucking weirdo. You might be autistic. We can't tell each other the truth on a daily basis, because then the streets would run red with blood 24 hours a day.

You can't really start being truthful with people until you get to know them better. There needs to be a certain amount of comfort and familiarity between you. You could even make a cute little Demetri Martin pie chart of it, where truth increases on a line the longer you know someone.

(Speaking of which, I worked with someone a while back who worked for Demetri Martin. This person did not care for Demetri Martin, and told me that Martin's staff called him Brain Cook behind his back. I personally think Demetri Martin's a pretty funny dude, but God, that's just a devastating insult.)

Luke:

If you were to stand at a urinal next to a celebrity (no matter how famous, whether it's Barack Obama or William Hung), would you try to sneak a peak at their package? I know it goes against the "rules" of male public bathroom etiquette, but I would totally do it and feel superior knowing that I know what this famous person's junk looks like, and if I'm better equipped than he is.

It depends. If it's William Hung, no. Because I can already venture a solid guess. But if it's Obama? Then yes. Yes, I'd be curious to see what the President's dick looked like. What if it had a tattoo that said HOMIEZ FA LIFE on it? Just the possibility would be enough to compel me. Or what if it had an abnormal hook or a burn scar? I really do need to know such things.

So yes, I'd look at the penis if I felt the penis was a newsworthy item, the way a President's penis or a Pope's penis might be. Or if it's a legendary penis, like Mick Jagger's. But if it's just a garden variety celebrity, then probably not. I bet Demetri Martin's penis has a series of overly elaborate doodles on it.

Larry:

When I injure myself I sometimes think about whether my exact condition would be harder to handle for everyone else in the world. If I tweak my ankle and am able to walk it off, I wonder if that exact injury is the same shit that would have LeBron out 2-3 weeks.

No need to wonder. LeBron WOULD be out 2-3 weeks, and the ankle would flare up again just as his team was losing in Game 6 of the Eastern conference Semifinals.

Rory:

Is Jared a millionaire? The fiancé asked me that question after the latest Subway commercial came on tonight. Typically I would just make up an answer in these types of situations to show off my superior knowledge of everything important in life. But in actuality the question really pissed me off…because what if he really is a millionaire?

He's almost certainly a millionaire. Consider this article:

Jared is fairly circumspect about what Subway pays him. A couple of years ago, in a Washington Post article, he said his earnings would make him a "future millionaire." All he would tell me with regard to his salary was, "They treat me very well." No matter how much he's earning, though, it's likely that he's underpaid. Consider that Advertising Age reported in July 2005 that "Subway executives have said when ads featuring [Jared] stop running, sales dropped as much as ten percent," and that Subway's revenue for 2004 topped $6 billion. This suggests that Jared is worth as much as $600 million a year to the chain.

What's more, another article estimated that Jared works roughly 220 days a year for Subway, most of that work done out on the road. So he's a millionaire, but he's WORTH it to the chain and he apparently works a lot to earn that cash. Kind of amazing, when you think about it. And remember: If Jared has an occasional craving for Quizno's, he has to suppress that shit or else a Subway henchman will carve out a tringle-shaped section of his head with a very small bread knife. The man lives in FEAR.

I'm the only person on Earth who thinks Jared looks like what Tiger Woods would look like if Tiger Woods was a white person. Or if Tiger and Jerry Seinfeld had a baby, which is very much possible.

Kyle:

At work today we had a debate about what sport is less popular in the respective geographic area: soccer in the us or baseball in europe? It has to be baseball in europe right? No one watches baseball there and soccer has a cult following here.

I'm not even sure Europeans know what baseball IS. They're too busy smoking cigarettes and following Formula One. I bet the number of people who have lived in France their whole lives and follow Major League Baseball religiously can be counted on one hand. It just doesn't seem theoretically possible.

Chip:

I grew up in a typical suburban neighborhood and lived across the street from a girl who was my age. Form about age 4 or 5 we would hang out together and with other kids in the neighborhood, attend each other's birthday parties, etc., all the crap kids did back then. She went to a private school so we didn't go to the same high school and didn't see each other much then, mainly spending time with our jr./sr. high school friends.

We both grew up, moved out, went to college and never heard from each other again until some 20 years later she sent me a friend request on Facebook. I accepted, checked out her pics, and HOLY SWEET FUCKING JESUS!! She is smoking ass hot. My daughter goes to her old high school and she said she would be at the homecoming game. So we meet and she is just as hot in person, has a great career, not married, no kids, and really seems to have it together. I am now wondering how in the world did I miss this? This hot girl literally across the street from me for 18 years and I am too stupid to notice, much less make any effort to pursue it. I am married and have no bad intentions, but I am still left wondering What if?

I had the opposite thing happen to me a week ago, when someone sent me a picture of an old school group I was in and included in the photo was a girl I had a crush on all senior year. I was very excited to see a photo of this girl, because back then I would have shit hot knives just to thumb wrestle her. So I look at the picture and… Nothing. She looked totally ordinary. And that fucked with my head, because I could have sworn when I was 17 that she was the hottest goddamn thing I'd ever seen. Was my brain lying to me? Did it take the sight of her and reshape it until she looked how I wanted her to look? It can't be because I've matured, because I haven't. Life is very weird like that.

Time for you email of the week. Kevin, email the tips line for your prize.

Kevin:

A little while back my wife and I were selling one of our rental homes. Well the oven broke and we basically just needed any piece of shit that got hot to replace it with. We combed Craigslist and found one for 25 bucks that wasn't to far away. My wife called up told the woman that her husband and her father would be coming by in the jeep to pick it up. After driving around for some time my father-in-law and I pulled into a trailer park. I knocked on the door and stepped back a few feet, not knowing who or what would answer the door. Finally after about 2 minutes of a dog barking the door opens and I'm immediately hit with the smell of crappy weed that was probably sprayed with raid. The woman looked confused and just sat there staring at me.

"I'm here for the stove", I said. She just sat there and stared at me like I had lobsters crawling out of my ears. Finally she pointed towards the kitchen area where the stove was. I walked back there and the stove was in decent shape for its surroundings. It had spices lined up on the back of it and had a couple empty pots on top of it, which I kind of thought was a little strange considering she knew I was on my way to pick it up. Anyway I removed everything from the top of it, pulled it out and unplugged it. My father-in-law was still outside on the phone, probably afraid to come inside. Wanting to get out of there as quickly as possible I began sliding the stove through the trailer towards the door. The women had sat back down on the couch and continued to smoke out of this bong made from a PVC pipe.

I finally got the stove outside the trailer onto the front deck and went back in to settle up. "25 bucks right?", I said. Again she just sat staring. Finally she says, "I think you got he wrong house, this is my friend's house and I'm just visiting".

Sure enough she was right. I was off by a number on the address. I quickly grabbed my father-in-law and left, leaving the stove on the front porch.

Tremendous. White trash never question you when you come to repossess something.