Time for your weekly edition of the Deadspin Funbag. Find more of Drew's stuff at KSK or on Twitter. Preorder Drew's new book, The Postmortal, right here. Email the Funbag here. Today, we're covering drunken hallucinations, cruel ex-fiancees, cadavers, and more. (Photo: via)
Yesterday I tried on one of those sweat-wicking polyester workout shirts, the kind that's skintight and utterly unflattering on someone like me. Anyway, I've got this thing on and it's just painted on me, it's so tight, and it occurred to me that the main reason people wear this kind of stuff isn't because of the microfiber technology or whatever the fuck. No, no. They wear that shit because they think they're Spiderman when they put it on.
Most every superhero costume out there is skintight. So you know damn well that when some really jacked guy like Vernon Davis throws on one of these things and looks in the mirror, he's totally picturing himself shooting webs out of his wrists and climbing buildings and banging some hot newsroom tail when the day is done. I felt like a superhero for three seconds when I had this shirt on, then I looked in the mirror and the whole effect was ruined. I shouldn't have done that. When your headlights are on with one of those shirts, they are fucking ON.
I was at my great grandma's funeral today, and instead of reminiscing about her life, I was drawn into a quite a vivid imagination involving her reanimating and her zombified corpse attacking the congregation. I figured that I'd handily beat her 93-year-old corpse to shit using just my bare hands, save my whole family, and become the town hero. Is it normal for people to dream about beating up old zombie women at their funerals?
Not anymore. Next funeral I go to, I'll be planning for the reanimation. I'm something of an anomaly in that I've never in my life ever been to a wake or an open casket funeral. I've never actually seen a dead body. I've been a pallbearer and I've been to memorial services, but I've yet to crack the dead body seal. And I need to do that soon because it's going to happen at some point down the road, probably with someone I really care about. I may as well look up random wakes in the paper and just go and see my first cadaver up close. I gotta lose that dead body card. I wonder what the average age is for people to lose it. I have to be way past it.
I've always been somewhat envious of people who have gotten to attend wakes. What happens if you touch the body? Can you touch the body? Don't you sit there during the entire wake wondering when some kind of comical hijinks will ensue with the corpse? I'd be terrified to walk up and look at the body. Not because I'm scared of dead people (though I am), but because I fear tripping on my way up to the coffin and then falling face first onto the body and accidentally tonguing the corpse's mouth. I feel like that happens at wakes a lot. Maybe I've seen Clerks too many times.
My buddy and I have an ongoing dispute over whose invention would be more successful.
My invention is a toilet brush that is made to look like a flower pot. The holder is shaped like a terracotta pot, and the brush looks like a flower stalk. When you place the brush back in to the holder, it looks like a pretty flower. You could have any number of pretty flowers. Roses, Tulips, Sunflowers, the possibilities are endless and I know women would eat that shit up.
His invention is boxer briefs that do not ride up half way through the day when they lose their elasticity in the legs.
The flowerpot toilet brush exists already. A simple Google search verifies it.. Frankly, I'm stunned there isn't one in my house as we speak. Because wives are disgusted by toilet brushes. The fact that you have to keep something in the bathroom that has a history of touching the inside of the toilet bowl is almost too much for them to bear. May as well keep a mistress in the basement.
As for the boxer briefs things, your friend needs to show his work. HOW will he prevent it from running up on your leg? What material has he come up with that will maintain its elasticity during the course of the day, so that I feel like a superhero when I wear my boxer briefs in conjunction with a skintight sweat-wicking adidas climalite t-shirt? BOTH YOUR INVENTIONS ARE ILLEGITIMATE. YOU BOTH LOSE.
Oh, do you not have Yankees season tickets and drive a Range Rover?
Oh, I hate that car so much.
I recently heard about Club 33 at Disneyland and was totally fascinated. At first it sounded like an urban legend, but then I looked it up and it actually exists!
What a bizarre idea. I mean, the Wikipedia article explains why Disney built it, but a super private club in the middle of Disneyland just seems really weird to me. Disneyland is such a contrived, sanitized place, that a normal bar/restaurant, let alone a "secret" one, has no business being there. Like a big shot member is either 1) going to spend a day at the park and then just stop in for a drink at the club, or 2) go out of his way to go to Disneyland, just so he can hang out at Club 33.
Well, I'm sure that Club 33 exists so that its corporate sponsors have a place to hang out in the park while the Guatemalan nanny squires their kids around the rides in 4,000-degree heat for nine hours. "Lupe, if you need me, I'll be at Club 33. Just call my cell. No, wait. Call 911, THEN call my cell if 911 won't help you." I bet Berman has absolutely bathed that Club in his DNA. It strikes me as the kind of place that's specifically designed for upper class assholes who are just barely able to conceal their brazen philandering. I kinda want to go now. Club 33 is just further proof that, no matter where you are, rich people have a place they can go where they can light cigars with thousand-dollar bills and avoid being touched by the uncleansed masses.
I was reading People magazine yesterday because I was on the shitter and it was there, and it detailed the Royal Honeymoon for William and Kate in the Seychelles. And they showed a picture of their honeymoon suite and it was fucking incredible. You couldn't even conceive of a hotel room this nice. It didn't occur to me that you could live in such grotesque comfort, and yet they are and I never will. And that makes me so fucking ANGRY. I wanna find Prince William and shit on his head. KATE IS BEAUTIFUL BUTTERFLY AND DON'T YOU DARE BREAK HER HEART OR I WILL HUNT YOU DOWN.
Would you golf at a course that was also a cemetery? I mean instead of water and sand traps there would be tombstones. There would be tombstones outlining some of the holes and maybe a couple of hills full of tombstones overlooking the course. I named this imaginary course "Holey Christ Golf Course." I picture having the Masters there one day, and Tiger smacking a shot off a tombstone then cursing out the name on the tombstone.
I don't know why they don't have more themed golf courses. Like a safari course with giraffes and antelopes fenced in around the course. I'm a horrible golfer and would still pay good money to golf around giraffes.
But what's the rule if your ball gets parked behind a tombstone? Do you get a free drop? Because people would be pissed if they went to a golf course and got penalized for all the man-made obstacles. I think theme golf courses are discouraged by serious golfers because they don't want it to resemble miniature golf. Also, serious golfers are assholes who are no fucking fun. These are people like Jim Nantz who actually take golf seriously and think playing golf somehow makes you a better person than someone who doesn't. People who are into golf don't like the idea of treating the sport like a novelty. They must maintain the illusion of integrity before heading over to Club 33 and fucking one of the cigarette girls.
Solo Rap Group:
Many claim that they would go back into time to change history. Maybe they would stop Hitler or bet on the World Series. Well, what if Hitler already IS from the future, and time machines are invented by then so HE came back to change history first? Is it possible to defeat him, or do you have to go back even further?
Wouldn't you then have to time travel FORWARD, to when Future Hitler will actually be born, so that you can stop time from traveling back in time to ascend to power in Europe and kill the Jews? And you'd have to figure out which future year that was, either by strong-arming Hitler in the past (at which point you may as well kill him there anyway), or by skipping ahead in the future in small increments, then checking around to see if Future Hitler has been born but not yet been sent back by Google to start World War II and kickstart a dormant American economy. Very, very painstaking task. Goddamn Future Hitler.
So I found a pube like halfway up my shaft the other day. The fuck?
It's like a tree with one branch, isn't it? I kinda love it when that happens.
You grew up a big fan of the Vikings right? Let's say you're an NFL prospect and get drafted by any of the other 31 teams. You play your career, maybe stay with the team that drafts you or move around a few times before retiring, but the Vikes never sign you. Once you're retired, do you go back to being a Vikings fan, or do you become a fan of the team that drafted you or the team that you had the most success on, had the best fans, etc? Aren't you-at least secretly-always a Vikings fan?
I guess you can use Terry Bradshaw for an example. Bradshaw is a Saints fan despite never having played for them, so I think it's possible to go through your career playing for one team and then reverting back to rooting for your hometown team after you've retired. Maybe Bradshaw's a special case because Steelers fans were kinda rough on him, and because he's retarded. But I think the more common scenario is this: A player gets drafted into the NFL for a team that is not his hometown favorite. He goes through his career, makes friends with other players, makes enemies with certain coaches, and by the time he's out of the league, he's basically ruined as a fan. He just roots for certain old friends, or against the coach who cut him, or whatever. He's too close to it to go back to being a normal football fan, and that's kinda sad. I feel bad for our imaginary strawman who exists only as a byproduct of my bullshit armchair psychology.
Bobby Big Wheel:
How often do you think a woman has her period on her wedding night? Considering so many women are on birth control that makes them only have their periods every 3 months it might be as low as 10%. Still, what happens if that's the case? Google indicates that you just do it in the shower, or swim into the red tide con gusto. Maybe on your wedding night you could take your wife's anal virginity.
I assume you'd just go ahead and consummate the marriage regardless. After all, those are hotel sheets you're fucking on. You don't have to wash them! Get ‘em good and bloody! I'd like to think all the stress involved with the wedding would cause the bride to actually delay her cycle and break out in feverish hives about the neck and armpits. I think a woman's body is cooperative like that.
Are the legendary sharpshooters of the NBA (Ray Allen, Reggie Miller, etc.) the all-time best shooters on the planet? Or are there douches in random countries (like Moldova) that virtually never miss a shot but do not possess the athletic ability to play professionally...
There may be guys who can shoot as well while standing in a gym with no one else around. But you have to give Allen and the NBA shooters credit for doing it in important situations with some asshole right in their face and lots of people watching. You can't really compare the two. I can make free throws at the gym. Put me on a REAL stripe and I'd go 0-for-45.
Shane in DC:
RE: bin Laden. What the hell kind of war room do we have?! What the fuck! They look like the grabbed some stolen office chairs and crammed into the living room of my college apartment! Where the fuck is the big board?! The way Obama is squinting, it looks like they're trying to watch the raid on a shitty 19-inch TV! I'm shocked there isn't a mini-fridge in the background.
You're right. Why the fuck were they all crammed into one tiny, shitty room? It's the White House Situation Room, not a conference room at a Holiday Inn. It's should look like the war Room in Dr. Strangelove. It should be ENORMOUS, with oak paneling and a huge table in the center and giant maps of the world projected on the walls, with little red dots indicating where all the nukes are. And there should be menacing lighting. And it should be located under a volcano. And every chair should have armrests carved like giant eagles. And there should be giant red buttons all over the place that the President could push to obliterate random countries as he sees fit. They shouldn't have all been crammed into that one shitty room while they watched bin Laden get got. It deserved a better venue.
If you found a genie and the only wish he could grant you was that every time you pitched in a baseball game, you would only give up two runs, could you make a major league career out of it? Your arm strength remains the same, so if I'm a 6 foot, 200 pound guy who can throw 65, 70, with no movement that wouldn't change... But after the first two batters in any game hit a bomb off me, I wouldn't give up another run for the rest of the outing. Batters would start magically striking out, flying out directly to the outfield... whatever. Would I ever get my major league shot?
As an aside, if you did make it you would go down as the greatest pitcher of all time. I like to imagine the excuses announcers would make like... "He doesn't throw hard, but he hits his spots", or "He pitches with guile" because they have to say something to explain why someone throwing 60 is dominating the league, but on the inside they are wondering what the fuck is happening.
What happens in practice? Do you get just crushed in practice, only to magically turn around when gametime hits? Because then it might be impossible for you to make the majors despite your wish being granted. You'd have to find a way to get someone to let you pitch in a real game, and you'd have to get enough people to see that game to move you up to the next level, and the next level after that. Let's say you're already out of high school, so you don't have the option of joining your high school team. You'd have to start off pitching in a rec baseball league. But who's gonna notice you then? You're a great rec league pitcher, but it's not like there are scouts there. You could write to scouts and explain your story, but no one's gonna believe your crazy genie tale. And even if a scout did notice you, you'd still have to pitch in practice situations for him, like at spring training and stuff. And if the spell isn't working then, you'd get rocked and sent back to whatever rec league you were dicking around in. Ditto for if there were a strike and you tried walking on as a scab. Basically, it would be this incredible gift that would turn into a cruel, lifelong tease that would probably end up driving you mad. COOL.
What do you think hurts more, a man getting his dick pierced or a chick getting her clit pierced? And furthermore, how much would you have to get paid to get a Prince Albert dick piercing?
The Prince Albert piercing goes through the urethra. If you've ever had urethral pain, you know that it's among the worst pain a human being can experience. I'm sure getting your clit pierced is also horrible, but I'll stick with what I know and go with the Prince Albert. I imagine the guy getting a Prince Albert being in a hospital getting a catheter and thinking to himself, "Say, how can I feel like this all the time? I know! I'll get my dickhole pierced! Then maybe everyone will think I'm edgy, and that'll make up for my mom dying when I was very young!"
I am really into the idea of throwing a big dead deer with antlers on my wall, and it got me thinking about human taxidermy. I am assuming there is some sort of law against it, but I fail to see the need for it. If I want to honor my friend by throwing his preserved corpse in my basement, why the hell can't I?
Your thoughts on human taxidermy?
Human taxidermy is illegal in all states, and most states have very strict laws about how dead bodies are to be disposed of, to prevent the spread of infection and what not. So you aren't allowed to get your best friend stuffed and lacquered and then mounted onto a giant plaque for legitimate reasons. And I think the other reason it's illegal is to prevent dead people from forcing their taxidermied bodies upon you. What if human taxidermy were legal and your grandpa requested in his will that he be stuffed and placed somewhere prominently inside your house? Tell me that wouldn't be a complete dick move on his part. The law protects you in ways you cannot begin to fathom!
Is it just me, or is washing your hands when they are filthy more satisfying than when you just use the bathroom? If I was outside all day, and had dirt all over my hands I would wet my hands, but not so much that all the dirt comes off, then I would put some soap on, and pull away from the water so I see all the dirt drip down the sides of the sink. Is this just me?
Don't forget to pretend that you got all that dirt on your hands from burying an enemy after killing him, or spending all day on a prison chain gang. SUCH HARD WORK. LET ME JUST WASH THE DAY AWAY. It's even more fun to wash off blood. Ever get a solid cut on your hand and then just watch the water run over it? You can see the blood flowing out of the wound and dissipating into the bowl. Hugely satisfying. And it gets even better if you're washing off dirt or blood in the shower. One of the only perks of being a lousy football player football, for me, was hitting the shower after practice and sloughing off all the dirt. GRRRR TOUGH DAY OUT IN THE TRENCHES, MEN.
This is in the bathroom at my new office: toilet paper in individual squares. What is this Martha Stewart bullshit? Now it takes me like 25 times the effort to clean the poo off my hairy ass.
Unless those are pre-moistened, your office is worse than Nazi Germany. I decry this kind of toilet paper dispenser, and if your boss installs one, you are encouraged to leave your wipings on his chair.
A good friend of mine recently learned that his ex-fiancee is getting married in a couple weeks (fucking Facebook). Not only is she using a lot of the same details they discussed during their wedding planning, but she's actually getting married on the exact date she broke up with him. Now, even though it's been three years my buddy has not even come close to getting over this girl, so we figure we had better keep him occupied that day to prevent him from doing something stupid like driving to the location and crashing the ceremony. Golf? Baseball game? Casino? Hookers? (Keep in mind it's a Sunday and I don't know if hookers work on Sundays.) Or should we just get him so blinding drunk on Saturday night that he sleeps the entire day away? Any thoughts on this would be greatly appreciated.
You don't think hookers work on Sundays? If the penis is open for business, the hooker is open for business. They're like heart surgeons – always on call.
I assume the ex-fiancee didn't even realize she scheduled her wedding on the same day she broke up with your friend, which somehow makes it even worse. "Oop! I'm sorry! I didn't mean to stab you in the heart again! My bad!" Women can be quite good at crushing you without even realizing it. I think it's a bad idea to do any activity that's a transparent distraction from the horrible thing you don't want him to think about. Usually, that only serves to exacerbate the misery. LOOK! WE'RE IN A CASINO! ISN'T THIS FUN?! That drives the broken-hearted to suicide. I'd keep it far more low-key. Take him to dinner. See a movie. Something very basic and pleasant. Oh, and burn down the church.
Time for your email of the week. It's a GREAT MOMENT IN DRUNKEN HALLUCINATIONS.
I've had a reoccurring nightmare where I see giant spiders on the wall next to my bed. It happened once last year, where I jumped out of bed and turned on the light, before realizing I must have imagined it. It happened again last night (a Wednesday). I thought I saw two, basketball-sized spiders on my wall, yelled at the top of my lungs and sprung from my bed. Only I was on the bottom bunk, so I nailed the bottom of my roommate's bed. My awakened roommate said I looked ghost-white and insane, and I probably wouldn't have even remembered it if not for the fucking lump on my head. Thinking it was a funny story, I told my Mom. Unfortunately, she thought it sounded like a symptom of Delirium Tremens, acute episodes of delirium following periods of heavy drinking, and took it as a chance to bring up my drinking habits. Well, I had drank a lot the previous weekend, so I thought I'd do a little research into the "DT's."
What I found was terrifying: Wikipedia says that "symptoms may appear suddenly but can develop 2–3 days after cessation of drinking heavily with its highest peak/ intensity on the fourth or fifth day." Also, these "symptoms are characteristically worse at night. Other common symptoms include intense perceptual disturbance such as visions of insects, snakes or rats. These may be hallucinations, or illusions related to the environment, e.g., patterns on the wallpaper that the patient perceives as giant spiders attacking him or her."
Holy shit, it described exactly what I had seen. This not only means that I am or have been an alcoholic, but also that in addition to worrying about hangovers the weekends after getting loaded, I can also look forward to being attacked by what I most fear sometime later in the week. Sweet Dreams.
/never drinking again