Could You Beat Kobe In Beer Pong?

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, through here. Email the Funbag here. Today, we're covering beer pong, poop, rape choices, and more.

I was about to go to bed the other night when my wife let me know that, earlier in the day, she had found an enormous spider right under my pillow.

"It was HUGE."

(NOTE: Everyone always exaggerates the size of the bugs they encounter, just to make you shit your pants a little bit extra. OMG IT WAS THE SIZE OF ONE OF FRANK DEFORD'S MUTANT OLD MAN FINGERS!)

So I take this information in and go to sleep. Then I wake up at 12:30 to piss and then I lay back down and I start thinking about it. A spider. Under my pillow. What if it's there now? What if it's been lying in wait this whole time, ready to crawl out, wrap my head in a giant web, and then eat my fucking face? What if he not's alone? What if there's a whole fucking COLONY of spiders embedded in my pillow? What if one of them laid eggs in my ear and there are little baby spiders crawling around my BRAIN? WHAT THEN?

Then I really started to psych myself out. I'd feel little itch on my face and be scared to touch it because OH FUCK IT'S SPIDERZILLA AND HE'S COME TO CLAIM ME. I got itches all over and started thinking there were spiders every goddamn place. I didn't fall asleep again for three hours. I hate spiders.

Your letters:

Bridgford:

I'm a pretty good beer pong player. Not the best, but if I'm in the right zone of drunkenness I can hang with the best of them. My question is, how would I fare against an NBA player? The mechanics of the beer pong shot are different from a basketball shot, but I feel like Kobe would still kick my ass at throwing things into other things. However, I went to college, and Kobe didn't, so I definitely have the edge in the beer pong experience department.

At the beginning, you would indeed have a mild advantage over Kobe, presumably because Kobe hasn't played in a while because he's Kobe Bryant and when you're Kobe Bryant, you have no use for beer pong. So if you're well trained and you know the table well, I'm sure you'd do just fine in the beginning. But then. Then Kobe would get a feel for the table, correct his mechanics, and LAY WASTE TO YOU. It wouldn't take long. Maybe three tosses. Probably less. He'd school you and then take your girlfriend home and put it in her butt.

Ivan:

Would you rather be raped in the mouth or in the butt?

Neither option is all that pleasing (though I'll take both over getting raped in the eye), but if I had to choose between the two, I'm going mouth. First of all, you have to consider the injurious nature of anal rape: the internal tearing and bleeding that can result from taking a prison dong up your laundry chute. Not only do you suffer at the moment of the attack, but you could end suffering long after it as well, not to mention all the possible infections you could contract from being raped in the butt.

Not that being mouth-raped is any picnic. Read the account of DSK's alleged victim if you'd like a good idea of what you're in for (seriously though, don't read it. It's fucking horrifying). I'd imagine you can also suffer from internal injuries and infection from being raped there as well, but at least you have the biting option at your disposal. Unless you have a gun to your head. Then it kind of flies out the door. Still, I'd want that biting option.

Eric:

A buddy of mine just informed me that he met a girl online, spent a weekend having the sexy time with her, then found out she is the daughter of a guy who killed a girl and fed her remains to a bunch of dinner guests. He's totally cool about it, and has even thought about naming his fantasy football team the Cannibal Daughter Fuckers.

My question is, would you be down to date a girl who is related to a killer? On the one hand, great story and the always pleasant smell of forbidden fruit. But even though I would know she had nothing to do with it, I think there'd still be a part of me that would feel like I'm sullying the dead somehow.

I don't think that would worry me so much as the idea that she might have some sort of Cannibal Murderer gene passed down to her from her old man. That would always concern me. Because let's face it: If your father was a murderer who staged a cannibal dinner party, you probably aren't from a strong family background. It's not fair for the daughter to pay for the sins of the father and be considered "damaged goods" as a result. There's obviously the possibility that the gal is just fine and dandy and always will be. But why play the long odds if you don't have to?

Then again, having someone who might potentially cook people could come in handy. Why, I'd love to have Ron Jaworski "over for dinner" sometime. If ol' Lizzie Borden can help with the prep work, perhaps that's just the sort of gal I could cozy up to. And having her for a wife could be a great way to get people to leave you alone. Like, let's say there's some shithead neighbor who always wants to stop and talk to you. You could just say, "Oh, have you met Candy? Her dad murders people and uses them for catering." That'll clam the asshole right up. I'd like to have a murderer's daughter by my side just for street cred. We could even get weird tattoos that don't mean anything but that other people might think means we're members of some cannibal organization. "The tattoo of the three goat's heads means WE AREN'T AFRAID TO SACRIFICE."

Mike:

What kid's toy breaks the fastest? It's the Slinky, right?

Slinkys don't break so much as they do get pulled and twisted and eventually warped into fucking ruin. That's the annoying thing about them. You give the kid the Slinky for ONE second (plastic or metal, doesn't matter), and the kid will get it so that the fucking thing is all tangled up in ways that don't make any sense. It takes you 6 hours to untangle it, to unspool it so that one stuck part can finally be freed. How did the kid manage to fuck it up so egregiously in just seven seconds? They're like little WIZARDS at breaking shit. And once you get the Slinky back, it's never the same. It's not a perfect spring after that. It has kinks and farts and it's basically deformed now, like it stepped on a goddamn landmine. Kids don't deserve Slinkys. Or remote controlled cars. They ruin those too.

Craig:

So this was on the sign at a Dunn Bros. coffee shop. Well, Drew...CAN YOU?!?

Could You Beat Kobe In Beer Pong?

Alas, I cannot.

Doug:

Google has the option of disabling Web History (including Google search history). Since this is clearly horseshit and Google knows/logs everything about you down to your genetic code, what happens to society if Google chooses to release everyone's search history to the public? My log would be superlatively mortifying and the last result of my search log would be "quickest and most complete way to commit suicide" resulting in authorities either find traces of my remains in the bottom of a pool of cooled lava or being acquitted in a Florida court room on national television.

I think the fear and terror I would experience from my own search history being released (I was searching for "dogs in latex" because of WORK, I tell you) would be offset by the joy of being able to sift through (or more accurately, to find out what reporters found when they sifted through) the search histories of some of the world's most famous and despised people. Finding out Jon Gruden searched for "gay paintball gun anal" or that Berman searched for "Lithuanian steel pussybot" would make my day. I'd pay good money for that, and by that I mean about five dollars. I asked AJ what he'd pay for Berman's search history, just to gauge what the going rate would be for someone like that. His answer was...

Wouldn't pay for it. Alright, $12.32.

I don't know what we'd do if we went through the President's search history and it came up with "underage mudshark rape" or something like that. You'd have to have some kind of Congressional inquiry. Could be fun! AJ says he'd pay $15.67 for Obama's search history. What a cheap fucker.

Dan:

Do you think that astronauts carry weapons into space? It's seems absurd that they would carry guns but you never know right? And what about the Space Shuttle itself or even the Space Station? You know NASA put some super secret missiles in there to fuck shit up in case of emergency.

You mean, in case aliens try to break in, right? I assume that's why you'd have a gun on board: in case aliens tried to break in and eat you with their big alien tonguejaws. Or, in case one of your fellow astronauts gets SPACE MADNESS...

...then covets your ice cream bar and tries to kill you all. However, I think having a gun on board a shuttle or space station would be a lousy idea because one misfire could potentially kill everyone on board. You'd have to have knives, or something that didn't threaten to puncture the ship's hull. Again, for all space questions, I asked Chris Jones, who wrote an excellent book about living in space, and is the unofficial Funbag Space Correspondent, for the answer. He says:

Well, yes, they keep a gun.

Technically, it's in the Soyuz capsule, one of which is always attached to the space station. The gun in question is a sawed-off shotgun.

It's there, because many moons ago, a Soyuz landed off-target, in remote, snowy wilderness, and when the cosmonauts decided to venture outside, they were set upon by wolves. (This is apparently a true story.) Rather than risk that happening again-the ol' Soyuz lands off-target quite a bit, and the Russian are a practical people-the crews now pack a little something under the seat.

In the absence of wolves, of course, it is also available in the case of alien invasion or, more likely, an astronaut or a cosmonaut going bonko and needing persuasion to settle down. You have to remember that all of NASA's pilots are military guys. They know where that gun is, and they know how to use it.

They'd have to make sure their aim was dead nuts, though. They blow out a window or something like that, and they're totally fucked.

They sure are.

Andrew:

I had a revelation the other day. I'm a big fan of putting chips on my sandwiches (Doritos are the best), but am a victim of the awful tendency of the chips to crumble and go everywhere as soon as I close the sandwich and cut it in half. Then I discovered that using slightly stale chips allowed for good crunch and flavor without the usual chip crumb onslaught brought about by fresh chips. Throw a fried egg on there and all is good in the world.

Noted. Do we all have that? Good.

HALFTIME!

Sam:

So my question is the smelliest poop ever taken. I can't decide if it would have been in some third world poo-hole, where the dietary conditions involved would have been offset by the pre-existing smells of the third world, or in some executive bathroom where a CEO's particularly offensive reaction to turned salmon bouillabaisse just massacres some preexisting potpourri and is all the worse by comparison. My roommate thinks it would be old people poops v. nursing home smell, but if you're considering the lifetime of poops they've had, it'd be tough to raise the bar significantly that late in the game, particularly when it's competing with the lingering odor of death.

I don't know. I think it's hard to single out one poop as THE worst poop ever in the history of mankind. Because it's a subjective issue. What smells horrible to you may not smell quite as horrible to me. Maybe a fried egg poop (a poop that smells like fried eggs for no good reason) smells horrible to you, but is oddly appealing to me. It's not unlike having to judge a food dish or critique a film or review a new album. It's not going to be a universal truth for everyone. So while I may smell that poop from a 54-year Down's patient who's eaten nothing but applesauce and his own semen for the past year and deem it the worst poop ever concocted, you may decide that no, that growler laid down by a Nepali prince who just ate fifty pounds of curried sheep balls is definitely worse.

And there's a threshold of tolerance here. Once you get to a really bad smell, it's hard to distinguish one bad smell from the other because they ALL make you ill. You're not gonna pause while running away from the port-a-potty going, "Wait! Let me just check that again and see where it ranks on my list." You're gonna keep running away from that shit shack fast as you can.

E:

When I get high, I eat a lot. I know everyone says this, but I can't stress how much I eat when I'm high and the ridiculous lengths I go to eat. Tonight I hung out with a friend of mine and smoked a nice amount of weed, then came home. There was nothing in my fridge, and no stores open, so desperately, I started eating anything I could find- including condiments. I poured generous amounts of Sriracha (Cock Sauce) on my hands, just eating it like that (fucking disgusting I know). I did the same with various hot sauces, I even drank a bit of Half and Half since I had no milk. I feel fucking gross.

Okay, I changed my mind. THAT guy's poop is probably the worst of all time.

Again, I must note to you stoners out there that you should always PLAN your high appropriately. Like when Renton locks himself in the room to shoot heroin in Trainspotting. He's PREPARED for that shit. (UPDATE: I fucked up. He locks himself in to get clean.) He has tins of food. He has a bucket to piss in. He has ALL THE LUXURIES. You need that too. You need shitloads of food, lots of water, eye drops, a copy of My Bloody Valentine's "Loveless," a video game console, porn, a nutrag, beer, assorted takeout menus, more weed, your iTunes Visualizer turned to ON, a diary to write down all your good ideas (smoked corn flakes!), and toilet paper. You should have all those things at your disposal.

Adam S.:

While at work, I had to drop a deuce and I created a turd dam. The toilet would not flow freely. Of course at home, I would use the plunger to break through the fecal-fortress, but there is not one present. Also, it's a single toilet bathroom. What do you do?

Leave.

Chris:

Say a guy gets bitten by a vampire, a werewolf, and a zombie all at the exact same time. When he dies, what does he come back as? Show your work.

I refuse to believe that the vampire virus would be the one to override the other two, because vampires are so douchey and annoying. I'll go with werewolf, mostly because that would be what I'd WANT to turn into, and because wolves are strong and fast and cool except when the thick-neck Mexican dude from Twilight plays one.

By the way, if a vampire bites a zombie or vice versa, nothing happens, right? You can't convert a zombie to vampirism. You're stuck with your team for the rest of your death.

Kate:

Which of these alternate universes would you choose: In one you have an amazing life, a perfect life, the life you've always envisioned for yourself. However, your job eight hours a day is to get the living shit beaten out of you. Like, four guys hitting you with a baseball bat beating the living shit out of you. When you're done with the eight hours your bruises and battle-wounds magically heal and you can go back to your perfect, awesome life. But that still doesn't change you got the shit kicked out of you for eight hours and it fucking SUCKED. Now, in the second universe, you have a terrible life. An absolutely abhorrent, shitty life. Homeless person living in Detroit shitty. However, for eight hours a day everyday you get to beat the shit out of whoever you want. Whoever in the entire history of mankind. Say you want to beat the shit out of Roger Goodell. DONE. Hitler? DONE. Also- you get to use items. An infinite number of different items. Pokeball to the face, Joseph Stalin.

But do you really have a great life if a third of your day involves horrible traumatic violence? Wouldn't the psychological impact of that pretty much ruin the other 16 hours you get in the day? You can't just say "oh your life is perfect" and then throw in that kind of repetitive abuse. It wouldn't work that way. Everyone has had a bad job, one that involves them going somewhere for eight hours day after day and eating other people's SHIT. And it's hard not to take it home with you. It's hard not to sit there and stew and agonize over how miserable your workday is. So to say, "Hey, it's a perfect life, except you get RAPED with a pickaxe!" is kind of wrong. And it doesn't quite work the other way, either. Because as nice as it would be to beat the shit out of, say, Matthew Berry for eight hours a day, that kind of daily violence ALSO takes its toll, even though you're the one dishing it out. And sure, Berry deserves it because he's a creep and a twat, but chances are kicking his ass for a third of every day will leave you with deep psychological issues, like a soldier returning from combat. Combine that going home to a shitty life and the problem only gets worse. So I'll take the former option even though both scenarios are realistically terrible.

John:

I am sure this gentleman has wooed many a suitor with his razor sharp wit.

Could You Beat Kobe In Beer Pong?

That's Matthew Berry's car!

Ryan:

I'm on a conference call with a vice president (who went to Dook for 8 years) of the company I'm interning at and he just called March Madness "the Duke Invitational". I should quit, right?

Indeed you should.

Adam:

One of my little joys in life is to use up the last paper towel of the roll. That means I get to use the tube as I see fit! Which usually means wielding it as a lightsaber and whacking my roommate, or utilizing it as a poor man's vuvuzela and making obnoxious noises.

What do you do with the paper towel tube in your household?

This reminds me of that recent Slate article about the dude who tired blowing himself by putting a paper towel tube over his dick and trying to vacuum it up into his mouth. I thought this was BRILLIANT (except for the fact that it wouldn't work and could potentially maim your genitals in the process), and I cursed myself for not trying it as a kid. Anyway, I have kids and the bare paper towel roll makes for an excellent sword, unless you're going against someone with a roll left from a tube of wrapping paper. Those things are like the two-handed swords of cardboard weaponry. Sometimes, you get a wrapping paper tube of reinforced cardboard that DOESN'T split open like a tube of Pillsbury cinnamon rolls after two whacks, and you can spend the day beating the shit out of people with it. I love those things.

Also, the last paper towel on the roll usually comes off cleanly (although mangled), while the last strip of toilet paper on the roll always ends up tearing the shreds. I'd like better closure from my TP.

Tammy:

All things being equal, do you save the last bite for the burger or the fries?

The fries. I eat a burger in about four seconds. It never leaves my hands. For real. I've never put a burger down for any reason. You could tell me Jesus was outside the Five Guys mowing people down with a shotgun and I still wouldn't put down the burger until it was finished. I only start digging into the fries when I've eaten enough of the burger to remove a free hand and begin fisting fries into my mouth while finishing the burger. I'm also genetically incapable of eating one fry at a time. No, no. No, I treat fries like Big League Chew. A whole goddamn wad goes in. In other news, you probably wouldn't want to go out for burgers with me.

J:

Seen outside LA fitness. It also has snoop dogg, dr. dre, eazy e and other rappers on it.

Could You Beat Kobe In Beer Pong?

Classy!

NativeWharf:

Last weekend was the historic Gilroy Garlic Festival, in (of all places) Gilroy, CA. I went down with a few friends from an old job of mine and figured it would be a fun day. Not a terrible atmosphere, and I was definitely excited for a day full of garlic food products. A sampling of the selections: Garlic shrimp scampi, garlic stuffed olives, garlic BBQ sauce, garlic spread, garlic dip, garlic fries, garlic crawdads (disgusting), and $3 garlic shaved ice (practically free). After a few hours baking in the sun, we decided to head home.

Now, at this point, I've eaten way too much garlic-product, and am forced to sit in the middle seat of a 4-door Celica for the two hour drive back home. The drive is about as uncomfortable as yuou would think and I finally get home. Immediately, I head to the bathroom for the most dastardly dump I've ever taken. I was holding my breath for fear of the stench, but finally had to exhale. Upon inhalation, I was delighted to find my poo smelled only of garlic.

That sounds rapturous. We never did discuss of there could be a BEST smelling poop. I figured on something fruity.

Ever eat so much garlic it comes out in your sweat. Wives ADORE it. (NOTE: Wives don't adore it.)

Email of the week time.

PC:

So I'm walking out of work today and notice a duck in the parking lot that looks like he's having trouble walking. I get a little closer and realize it has some string caught around his feet. He basically had his two feet tied together. I decided I would try to cut him loose. He wouldn't let me near him so I tried to give him some pretzels to get him a little closer. It worked, but a bunch of other geese came out of nowhere and started hounding me for more food. They were pretty aggressive and it kind of freaked me out. I waited for them to clear and tried it again. I got a little closer to the duck the second time, but when I tried to get close enough to cut him loose he started freaking out, snapping and hissing and such. Other geese also started to hound me for more food too. I decided I didn't want to get bit and contract some illness and have to get vaccinated, so I just left.

I feel kind of bad that I pretty much left this duck to die. When I thought about it a little more I realized I actually hate ducks (stemming back to golf course incident where one tried to attack me because my ball must have been close to her nest or something). I really only wanted to cut him free so I could say I saved something's life (maybe). Actually, I'll probably be happier now that there might be one less duck in the parking lot shitting everywhere; making the obstacle course I have to navigate through every day just to avoid getting duck shit on my shoes a little more bearable.

Am I an ass for leaving this thing to die?

Am I a pussy for being afraid of ducks?

Am I a pussy for even attempting to help the duck?

You did your best. It's not your fault geese are cunts, and that their cuntiness rubbed off on the ducky.