Time for your weekly edition of the Deadspin Funbag. Find more of Drew's stuff at KSK or on Twitter. Buy Drew's new book, The Postmortal, through here. Email the Funbag here. Today, we're covering kids, tying your shoes, cream cheese, and more.
The bathrooms at my old work building had two urinals side-by-side with a divider "wall" between them. I say "wall" because it was more like a genital privacy wall than an actual floor to above-head wall. Thus, it was pretty tight quarters in there. Additionally, there were two stalls off to the side. If you walked in there and someone was at a urinal, you usually went to a stall. You only used the second urinal if both stalls were full. However, there were a few guys that would use the uncomfortably close open urinal rather than an open stall.
So, one day, I walk in and I'm alone, so I use a urinal. Another guy who works on the floor comes in. I really don't know him, and we've hardly ever had a conversation in about 8 years. He pulls up to the urinal next to me, even with open stalls in the bathroom. Then, I feel the need to fart. I have no problems farting at the urinal, but it's always tougher to let one fly with another guy two feet from you. There's no hiding one of those. Anyway, I can't hold the fart in, and I let one go. Instantaneously and without pause, the guy next to me says, "Nice out". I may have mumbled "Thanks" but I don't remember. Nothing else was said, and we both eventually finished pissing and went on our separate ways. Over the next few days, I told this same story to my friends. Now, any time one of us farts in front of each other, we acknowledge it with a hearty "Nice Out".
I like that. NICE OUT. Way to work yourself out of a jam.
By the way, there are few things more frustrating than urinals that fail provide adequate buffer space between you and the person pissing next to you. I've been at urinals where the sides of my arms touch the genital partitions, like I had to squeeze in there just to get down to business. No elbow room. It's awful. Or worse, you get urinals close together with no partition, so you're in danger of touching shoulders with the guy next to you, and you have to rage against the dying of the light to make sure that doesn't happen because if it did THE EARTH WOULD DIE. You may even need to take an angle, which is deeply unsatisfying.
Even if no one else is in the bathroom, using a constricted urinal or toilet is a miserable experience. How many dive bars have you been to where there is NO space between the urinal and the sink, or the bathroom itself is a utility closet and the walls leave no room for your legs to spread if you're dropping anchor? They have zoning regulations everything under the goddamn sun and yet bar after bar in this fine nation refuses to consider your personal space when designing a bathroom (given that it's the bathroom, they probably spend as little money on it as humanly possible, hence the thoughtlessness). I want every toilet and urinal to be encased in a 5,000 square-foot private ballroom, with easy access to fetish magazines and a working Playstation3. Our current bathroom situation is a microcosm of our economy: cramped and poopy.
Another thing while we're yapping about toilets: Many bars and restaurants have the following bathroom setup: One urinal, one shitter, and a door that locks. You will notice that the use of this bathroom can change on a nightly basis. If two guys are fine to share that bathroom at the same time, the flow of patrons in and out all night will be two at a time. BUT, if there's an isolationist pooper in the group who decides to use the bathroom for himself and locks the door, thereby monopolizing both toilets, then the flow to the bathroom will be one at a time for the rest of the way. Speaking personally, I use the lock. If I can hog a bathroom to myself, I do. Because I am a penis.
Last thing: If you're in a crowded bar and every guy there is herded into the bathroom waiting to use the pisser, don't be the guy who wedges himself in there and leans against the door. What the fuck is your hurry to stand around inside that bastion of filth? Start a line outside, dammit. Because if you don't, every guy who comes in after another patron leaves the bathroom will do the same goddamn thing. WE ARE SHEEP. SHEEP WHO DRINK TOO MUCH BEER AND NEED TO GO WEEWEE.
Have you ever stopped to tie your shoe on an escalator? It's downright exciting. You automatically assume that if you don't finish the job before reaching the end of the ride, the tip of your shoelace will no doubt get sucked into the machinery, pulling you with it, and you'll be shredded like Enron documents. It's also fun to imagine that you're James Bond and strapped to the fiendish (yet easily defeatable) device of a nefarious supervillain, and a certain doom awaits unless you can heroically execute a double knot on your New Balances in time. Adds a small dose of excitement to your visit to the mall.
If there's someone behind you, you can also picture them putting on leather gloves and preparing to push you into the maw of the escalator feed, only from your seemingly vulnerable position you execute a perfect donkey kick and BOOM! Their head flies right off. NICE.
RANDOM ELEVATOR SHOE-TYING NOTE: I usually avoid tying my shoe in elevators because I fear that the elevator will stop at my floor abruptly and I will be driven face first into the floor because I wasn't properly braced for impact.
I've realized recently that my favorite bagel shop has two settings for cream cheese on bagels. If I ask for "a bagel with cream cheese" - I get a half pound of cream cheese, an amount that is so overbearing that I would legitimately feel sick if I ever ate. I spend half my eating time either A) licking it off my hands B) trying to get some of it off and not drop it on my desk. But if I ask for them to "go light on the cream cheese" I get a scraping to the extent that I think I might have actually wasted money on that cream cheese because they didn't give me shit. I'm having a tough time finding a middle ground and a way to communicate that to these no-gray-area-cream-cheesers. Thoughts?
Always better to have more of it if you need it than less. It always goes back to Clarence Worley's saying: "Better to have a gun and not need it than to need a gun and not have it." WORDS TO LIVE BY WHEN CONSIDERING FIREARMS AND/OR DAIRY PRODUCTS. You can ask for a "schmear," which hopefully conveys that you want a healthy blob of it spread on your bagel without the guy emptying the whole goddamn tub on your sandwich. Because Adam is right: Too much cream cheese can end up disgusting you, and I say this as a card-carrying cream cheese slut. My mom once bought these salmon pinwheels that have a big glob of cream cheese in the center, and after a second of eating it I felt like I had a whale cum in my mouth.
Would you rather have sex with a big dog or a big cat. i.e. Great Dane vs. Jaguar? I feel like big wild cats would be the Salma Hayek's of beastiality.
Oh please. The dog. It's not even close. The dog can't eat you to death. Dogs are friendly about that kind of thing. No way I'm wrestling some jaguar down for a big cat rape. No thank you. Now, if we're talking about sex with a jaguar vs. sex with a WOLF, then you've got a conundrum (I still pick the canine).
What if some crazed madman kidnapped you and presented you with this choice: 1 - You star in a gay porno that you fully participate in, but no one will ever know you did it, 2 - You star in a gay porno that you have no memory of participating in but it's released and widely distributed and everyone knows about it.
I don't know that having no memory of the event is much of a comfort in the face of doing something you didn't want to do. Because if you're aware of what happened, you're still able to create a memory of it in your mind, and that memory is often worse because it's tinged with uncertainty about what precisely happened. Was there bukkake? Boy, you hope not. Anyway, this is one of those impossible questions with no answer, because either way I answer it I look like a homophobe. "You don't want to suck a dick? YOU'RE SUCH A GAY BASHER." I'll take option two because I am terminally incapable of shutting my mouth anyway. If I were forced to star in a gay porno, you'd be reading it about it here the next day. YOU GUYS! OMG! YOU'LL NEVER BELIEVE WHAT HAPPENED BUT I JUST TICKLED PETER NORTH'S BALLSACK AT GUNPOINT.
Sometimes at work, I'll leave my office to talk to someone on the other side of the building. When I come back, my office smells like a stale fart took its shoes off while eating corn nuts. Please tell me that's not what other people smell every time they walk through my door.
It is. I wish it weren't, but that's the hard truth. It could be worse. Your desk could smell like old man breath. Ever get a strong whiff of old man breath? It'll put you down for weeks.
You should be able to follow this guy and punch him in the face when he gets out, no?
If you were forced to adopt an additional sense for your penis, what would you choose? In other words, your wiener would constantly be sending sight, smell, sound or taste signals to your brain. They're all pretty horrifying choices, but I think sound is probably the safest. Although having dong vision might be pretty awesome.
So I'd be able to shift to DongVision if I chose to do so? I'm already on the record as being against close-up shots in pornography, so I'll take the sound option. Ambient sound coming from your penis can't be all that different from what your ears hear, and you'd get an amplified sound of your piss forcefully hitting the urinal, which is one of the great sounds of manhood. Smell and taste would be horrid.
This question is much more interesting if you include the sensory organ involved. In other words, would you rather have a nose, ear, eyeball, or tongue attached to your manhood? You see how that presents a much wider range of problems? I'd go eye, provided the eye had a lid. It would look like the probe droid at Jabba's palace that tells C3PO to fuck off.
My girlfriend is lactose intolerant. If she tried milk from her own tits, would it fuck with her stomach?
It would. Human milk, like any other milk, is full of lactose. Many lactose intolerant babies, in addition to being pussies, are unable to properly digest either breast milk or formula milk, and often have to be put on synthetic prescription formulas, some of which can run you hundreds of dollars just for one can. No bullshit. I've seen parents who had to spring for it, and they look like someone just knocked their house down with a wrecking ball. BEWARE.
Earlier this year, I noticed a red bump on my dick while taking a piss. Instant freakout commenced. Of course I instantly thought HERPES OH GOD I HAVE HERPES HOW DID I GET HERPES, since I've always been safe. I was out of town, so I started Googling things like "herpes symptoms" "red bump on penis" and so on, which never do this when you are sick. The internet is full of worst case scenario weirdoes and just plays up every fear in your head.
I make an appointment with at my doctor's office (after decided to not go to a clinic), and get seen the next day. He looks at it, and says that it's scabies. I feel instantly better, because, hey not herpes. At the same time, he didn't like, do any tests, just looked at it. I have to cover my body in this lotion, that by the way is classified as a neurotoxin, and wash everything in hot water and dry on high heat or seal it up in garbage bags for at least 72 hours, and then re-lotion in a week.
Two weeks later, the bumps don't go away, and even more of them appear. Now I make an appointment at the dermatologist, who instead sends in the nice, young Physician's Assistant. Sigh. She decides that she needs to confirm the scabies infestation. She gets a glass slide and a scalpel and scrapes the bumps on my penis, and then looks up at me with the sorriest eyes I've ever seen and says, "Let me know if this hurts too much. Sorry." It really doesn't hurt as bad as you'd imagine, it feels kind of like a rugburn or something. She leaves the room to go look for bugs under a microscope.
Five minutes later, she comes back with the dermatologist, who is being trailed by 4 more nurses. They lay the chair I'm in backwards so I'm lying down, and one nurse says "Dr. M would like to do a lidocane injection." I respond with "Uh, okay." The dermatologist turns around with a syringe, and starts injecting lidocane into the tip of my dick. It hurts like hell, then goes numb. He then gets a scalpel and starts going to town. I just lay back and pretend it's not happening. He gets done, they take pictures of my destroyed dong, confirm scabies, give me new treatment. As the lidocane wears off, any movement becomes excruciating, and my dick looks like Two Face from Batman. It took weeks to heal, and it's back to normal. Thank God.
/dies from trauma
I just... JESUS. I'd trade my children to ensure a future free of penile scabies. There can't be anything good about something named "scabies".
By the way... Babies With Scabies? Another fine potential name for a terrible band.
I'm going to a steakhouse this weekend, (I've been looking over the menu for the last 2 days). Question is... do I go with the porterhouse for two, a filet, or the bone-in-ribeye? I could always go outside the box and sample the chilean sea bass. I can't decide though.
The ribeye. Since returning to red meat a year and a half ago, I have taken great care to figure out which fast food burger I prefer (Five Guys, although I'm no burger snob. I'll eat any piece of ground up animal tissue stuffed inside a bun) and which cut of steak I like best. And holy shit, do I like the ribeye. I eat the fat. Not only do I eat the fat (SPAULDING!), it's the first thing I eat. It's the greatest thing ever, when the fat is all crispy and seared on the outside and juicy and fatty on the inside GODDAMN. Every ribeye has that little tuft of fat at one end, and that shit is the money bite. It's like God slapping you on the ass.