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 secrets of the female anatomy, time travel, and more.
Before we get to the Funbag, a quick reminder that I will be at New York Comic Con on Friday morning, hosting the "Zombies, Fallen Angels, and Other Paranormals" panel in Room 1A23 at the Javits Center. What's that? You were going to go to the Final Fantasy XIII-2 panel? What are you, some kind of fucking NERDY NERD?! All the kewl kids are going to the ZFAOP panel. Also, there's an "It Gets Better (With Comics!)" panel going on at the same time, so if you're gay and you can only accept encouragement in comic book form, that's the place for you. Also, Postmortal readings have been added for Chicago and Milwaukee (THE GOOD LAND) for late November. Details to come. Now, your letters:
Is there anyway in hell Steve Jobs was really as important to the iPod, iPhone, and iPad as Apple freaks really think he was? He just had really smart people working for him, right?
It's not quite accurate to say Jobs "invented" the iPod, in the way that Thomas Edison invented the phonograph. Edison invented the phonograph on his own. The iPod was invented as part of a collaborative process that Jobs was in charge of, and Jobs had access to the full resources of a billion-dollar corporation. But it was all Jobs's vision, which makes him the spiritual inventor of the product and not a glory hog. I still think Randall Peltzer's "Bathroom Buddy" was a better invention, but to each their own. If some other asshole had been in charge of Apple, you wouldn't have an iPod. You'd have the Apple ToonPlayer III, and it would have 6,000 buttons and you would hate it with every fiber of your being.
One of the old stories about Jobs and the iPod is that, when his designers first showed him the prototype, he sent it back and demanded that all the buttons be taken off. Now, you know damn well there was some poor Apple designer who had slaved over this thing for months if not years, and was all ready to go home and have dinner with his family when Jobs sent him back to the drawing board to get rid of the buttons. I bet that designer hated Jobs's guts at that moment. I bet that designer was like, "Fucking Jobs. I hope he gets cancer." And then Jobs got cancer and that designer probably ended up feeling really bad. Also, I read this tidbit about Jobs's hatred for buttons:
The elevator in Apple's store in Tokyo has no buttons. It simply stops on every floor.
If I were in that store and the elevator stopped on every floor, I'd want to find Jobs's corpse and beat it with a USB cable.
If you were given the chance to time travel into the future for exactly one week how many years deep would you go? If you go say 100 years into the future you would probably be able to function normally, watch sports, play cool video games (Madden 2112!!). Now let's say you choose to go 20,000 years into the future, who knows what the fuck the world would be like. There could be scores of three titted aliens running wild.
It's a gamble, because as much as I'd like to travel 20,000 years into the future just to see what's going on, I'm terrified the time machine doors would open up and I'd step out into a fucking WORLD OF FIRE, where everyone is dead and the Earth's atmosphere is no longer hospitable to human existence. The doors could open and I could burn to death from the heated air or choke to death from the toxic gas clouds. Or what if the Earth is GONE? What if I step out into a goddamn asteroid field? Not a risk I want to take. Even if you offered me a protective suit, I still wouldn't do it. Because then I'd come back to the present and never sleep again, knowing that we're all doomed. DOOMED!
The more immediate future is no more promising. I could travel thirty years into the future and discover my son has turned into an obese Nazi junkie. And what if there's NOTHING I can do about that? What if destiny is ironclad, and even if I tell my son, "Listen, dude, do NOT become an obese Nazi junkie," he still becomes an obese Nazi junkie? I can't live with that knowledge. No, no, no. I will stay right fucking here, thank you very much. I couldn't handle time travel into the future. My head would blow apart.
Now, traveling into the past? That I'd do. I'd travel back in time twenty years, disguise myself with a false mustache, and ambush my mother, chastising her for letting her son get so fat and for buying so many Lenny Kravitz albums. Then I'd go back to "Mad Men" times and pinch lots of asses. IT WAS COOL BACK THEN. Traveling to the past always beats traveling to the future.
Mike is referring to the Reddit thread linked above, which contains the following piece of information, from user Alison:
After girls poop, if there's a piece still stuck in there that we can't push out, you can put your fingers in your vag and push up into your colon and it'll come out. It's pretty awesome.
I did not know that. That needs an UrbanDictionary slang term immediately, like the French Press or the Nuclear Option, or something far more creative. I need to borrow a woman's reproductive organs for a day, just to verify this.
A couple of years ago in Mexico I got outrageously drunk at one of those all you can drink nightclubs. While stumbling back to my hotel, alone, I was propositioned by an absolutely gorgeous Mexican girl who asked me if I wanted "company". Money was exchanged, and she led me into what seemed to be an abandoned roadside cinder block restroom, or something like that. My new friend got frisky with me, and then backed that ass up into me, in full-on grind mode. Every time I tried to perform the ol' reacharound, like a gentlemen, she rebuffed my advances, finally explaining (in broken English) that it was her time of the month. We then proceeded to have vigorous standing-up anal sex. I had sex with a dude, didn't I?
Probably. Maybe if you had pressed on the inside of her colon, her penis would have popped out. Everything is on the table now that Alison has opened Pandora's poopbox.
I noticed in the shower the other day I have super long pube. It has to be 7 inches long. I'm totally mesmerized by it. The problem is what good its something like that when you can't share it? I'm sure my wife would be unimpressed (as always with stuff like this). And its not something I'd bring up in a conversation at work. Maybe my old college buddies would appreciate it but I hardly see them. It seems like such a waste...
You shouldn't despair. Sometimes, it's nice to have little things that you and only you know about. Take it from someone who shares a house with three other people. You want certain things to keep for yourself, like a seven-inch pube. What a find! Where was it located, if I may ask? Was it right under the base of your dick? That's always a stunning spot to find long pubes. You lift your dick up and suddenly you find Rapunzel's scalp. It's bizarre.
How much money would you have to win in a Fantasy Football League for it to mean more than your favorite team winning the Super Bowl? If someone from the future (or a genie or some shit) told you, "Your team will win the Super Bowl. However, you will win $______ WHEN your Fantasy Football team wins but your team will not win the Super Bowl." How much would that dollar amount have to be? How much money would make you doom the Vikings to another year of obscurity? I'd like to think mine would be a million bucks or more, but I think I'd struggle if 100K was in front of me.
This is just one year of them not winning it all, right? Shit, it wouldn't take much. I'm already quite adept at watching the Vikings blow ass from year to year. What's one more year of soul-crushing incompetence? Plus, turning down the fantasy winnings wouldn't guarantee that my team would win the Super Bowl, right? It would still be left to fend for itself, without the genie's help, right? Well, the Vikings would fuck that up, so I'm taking the loot. Call it $50K and I'll sit through another round of McNabb trying to drill a hole in the line of scrimmage with the ball. Remember: I've been playing fantasy for years and years and have NEVER won a title. I'm inclined to start a one-man league just so I can break the streak.
I moved in with my girlfriend of 2 years last week, and this morning I find she not only finished the Brita, but she left it out of the fridge AND didn't refill it. I should probably cut bait and run now right? I mean there's going back once you've witnessed an atrocity like that. I love her very much, but where I come from that's a capital offense.
I know! If anything, YOU'RE supposed to be the thoughtless prick who doesn't refill it. I personally hate refilling a Brita pitcher, which is insane. All you have to do is stick it under a running faucet and then put it back in the fridge. But apparently, that's too difficult for me. I'd much rather have someone else fill up my magic water filtration device for me, so that I don't have to stand at the sink for a whopping four seconds. Meanwhile, 513 million African babies die of dehydration every minute. That's a FACT. I am a spoiled princess.
Anyway, tell the bitch to fill 'er up.
Has anyone ever gauged the relationship between the size and sound of a fart to its smell, and if so did it disprove the old SBD theory?
I've long thought that SBD was something of a myth. The noise a fart makes is largely determined by the force of its expulsion and the position and size of your asshole and asscheeks. You can sit down on a piano bench and fire off a real floor-rattler, or you can hold that shit in and let it dribble out as you use the exercise bike. The fart is the same fart either way. You haven't changed its chemical makeup by choosing to release it ninja-style. I don't believe in the SBD theory. I think MOST farts are deadly, whether announced or unannounced. I have silent farts that are fairly mild. I have loud farts that would level entire counties. The sound wasn't a factor so much as the amount of Old El Paso taco seasoning I took in the night before.
I think part of the SBD myth is perception. A loud fart announces itself. You can brace for the smell, and that helps blunt the impact. You can cover your nose with your shirt (whether or not this move works is a whole other field of scientific research). You can flee the area. You can mitigate the stench. Whereas a silent fart is unexpected. You have your guard down, and so you aren't prepared. You may be inhaling more of that fart than you would have if you had heard the fart coming. Thus, SBD. I wish there were $5 billion in stimulus funds allocated to researching this.
If you could only do #1 or #2 for the rest of your life, which would you pick? On the one hand peeing only seems awesome, as you'd never have the risk of sharting and babies/nursing homes would be a lot less gross. On the other hand, farting is awesome * and it'd be nice to not have to worry about breaking the seal at a bar. So what do you think is the better choice?
I'm torn, because never having to poop again means never having diarrhea again. You know how much I'd pay to never have the runs again? I'd pay... well, I'd pay at least five dollars, that's to be certain! There are bouts of diarrhea I had YEARS AGO that I still remember to this day. I nearly needed a hip replaced, I was on the toilet for so long. That's what a bad bout of diarrhea can do to you. It can scar you for life.
Alas, as someone who urinates far too often, I have to go with eliminating pissing, as enjoyable as pissing is. To get shitfaced without pissing a zillion times, to sleep through a night without pissing, to watch a whole movie or sit through a flight or attend a sporting event without having to hit the head once? That would be blissful. You only need to shit a couple times a day. And when you do, you can sit down and relax and spend some time with a book or perhaps think about ways to vandalize your boss's car. So you miss the paper and give yourself the stinkfinger occasionally. Big deal. I've had far more agonizing moments where I've needed to piss but couldn't than I've had agonizing moments where I've needed to shit but couldn't. Shitting wins.
Hypothetical situation. You're about to use a gloryhole. However, there's a chance that there's a guy on the other side rather than a girl. How low do the chances of it being a guy need to be for you to proceed? 10%? 20%? And here's the catch: once you're done it's revealed who blew you, so you can't just go ahead and do it and claim ignorance is bliss.
I think it would still have to be 0%, don't you think? How can you enjoy a blowjob if you know there's about to be a horrible reveal? What it wasn't a man or a woman, but a BEAR who was doing it to you? What if it turns out to be a girl, but that girl has fifty cold sores on her mouth? What if there's a squirrel trap on the other side? Homosexual panic aside, I'm not all that wild about being blown by some unknown entity. It's just too nerve-wracking. Besides, half the joy in oral sex is SEEING the other person administrate it. LOOK AT THAT! YOU'RE ACTUALLY DOING THAT! HOLY SHIT THAT'S AMAZING! I'D NEVER DO THAT TO ANOTHER PERSON, THAT'S FOR SURE!
Do you ever wonder if you are actually semi-retarded but no one ever really told you? Maybe people are just nice to you and are friends cause they feel bad for you? You get hired somewhere and even promoted because of some quota or tax kickback is met by bringing you through the company. This is the shit I think of on my 45-minute lawn mower ride.
Well, you know the old saying: If you're at the poker table and you can't spot the retard, you're probably the one eating a glue stick.
Recently I was doing yard work and managed to get poison ivy all over both of my hands. When I say all over, I mean ALL OVER. Up and down the sides of each finger, on the back of my hand, and even on the palm. Now, I had a huge urge to rub one out, but that obviously wasn't a good idea barehanded, so I got the bright idea of putting on a pair of those yellow rubber dishwashing gloves. Let me tell you, the feeling was AMAZING. It was almost if someone else was doing it, which is always a great sensation.
Now the question is, would this be considered a brilliant tactical move on my part, or am I secretly a sexual deviant who has a hidden S&M desire deep inside just waiting to be set free?
Hey man, if it floats your boat, go with it. I never would have guessed that dishwasher gloves would enhance self-gratification. I figured it was like rubbing the bottom of a sneaker against your privates. BAD FRICTION! BAD, BAD FRICTION! Ever have someone's sneaker graze your leg hair and tear it off? It's awful. That's some unforgiving rubber. Anyway, now that we know Playtex gloves have onanistic value, we're all gonna have to do a little bit of homework this evening. Report your findings at once. And don't use Palmolive on the gloves! That will end badly!
I had a friend who got poison ivy on his hands once and actually did manage to transfer the rash to his privates after scratching himself. Ever since then, I have lived in great fear of that demonic plant. My boy's nuts looked like a clown shoe after that episode. You don't want poison ivy. We should burn down every forest just to make sure all the poison ivy is dead.
Holy shit, it's a world penis-size map! But all the sizes are metric! NOOOOOOOOO!!!!! It says we Americans average between 11.7 and 13.5 centimeters. But what does that MEAN? Why couldn't it have been in inches?!!!
Between 4.6 and 5.3 inches? THAT'S A BALD-FACED LIE! How does Canada beat us in penis size? WE HAVE MORE BLACK GUYS. I call bullshit on this whole goddamn thing.
Anyway, this chart is amazing. Look at the edge that Latin America holds over us. Again, I call bullshit. People in Latin America are very short. Near-midgets, I tell you. No way they outclass us. And look at Sudan. They may not have running water or citizens who possess all four limbs, but they are HUNG.
Superfreakonomics, the latest book from the authors of Freakonomics, discusses how 60% of Indian men have smaller than average size penises. Interracial porn teaches us that black men have larger than average penis size. Do you think the same cultural thinking applies to vagina size? Do the tiny Indian women I see have smaller and tighter vaginas compared to say black women, who may have giant gaping vaginas?
I'd have to think so. That's just survival of the fittest. You couldn't be a lady with a tiny vagina living in the Sudan a thousand years ago and expect to survive for very long. Evolution demands the bigger meathole wins!
Also, THASS RAYCESS.
How many people a year die by impaling their brain due to getting into a car accident while picking their nose?
Aw man, don't put that in my head. Picking my nose while driving is one of the few pleasures I have left.
Would you rather be the best Madden NFL player ever or the worst real NFL football player ever? At Madden you are virtually unbeatable even by other professional Madden players. You are a known, feared Madden dynasty. In the NFL you are able to make cuts but you are always one of the worst three players on the team. You are often traded. You are one of those guys who is just brought in to fill a hole on a bad team, but you are an NFL football player who puts on pads on Sundays and runs out onto the field which is inherently badass. So which is it?
This is a hard question, because no matter how bad of a player you are, it's still pretty nice to be able to tell people you played in the NFL. And being a bad NFL player means you're an otherwise awesome athlete relative to everyone else, something I've badly wanted forever. As for the Madden gig, you can earn money as a top gamer now, so you could draw a salary from playing Madden, and play for a good long time. Also, you wouldn't have to attend football practice or watch game tape or do any of that horrible shit. And avoiding the NFL means you wouldn't end up with Lou Gehrig's Disease by age 37. So that has its perks. HOWEVAH, you'd have to spend every day playing Madden against a bunch of trash-talking 13-year-old cocksuckers. I don't think I could take that. Real NFL player for me.
A thought crossed my mind today as I walked past my local homeless guy with his tattered McD's cup of change in front of him. Most of his income comes in the form of change with some singles mixed in. So when he goes to buy his next fix, does he just show up at the corner with a cup full of dimes and quarters? I don't remember seeing this on The Wire. Those are paper transactions, right? Maybe I'm jumping to conclusions at his spending habits, but pretty sure he's not going to Applebees or investing in mutual funds. Maybe this is how Coinstar stays in business (new slogan - from dimes to dimebags).
I've arranged a grand total of one drug deal in my life (for weed!), so I am the least knowledgeable person on Earth to pose this question to. I do know that I paid for my drugs with paper currency, because I assume that if you hand a drug dealer a Dixie cup filled with dimes, he'll riddle you with bullets, and justifiably so. You can get paper currency at virtually any bank free of charge, or you can probably walk into your local ghetto's "Checks Cashed/Money Orders" storefront and trade in your change for a loving 45% skim off the top. I can't imagine it's that hard. If I were a crack dealer, I'd never accept change. It would make the transaction far too clumsy. No one has clandestinely exchanged 57 quarters for drugs in a smooth and easily concealed fashion, even if you carried your change in a Ziploc bag. If you've paid a drug dealer in small change and lived to tell the tale, please drop a line. In fact, send in any fun drug buying screwup. We can make a party out of it.
Email of the week time.
I was in the bathroom yesterday, sitting on the can and getting ready to finish up my business. Usually, when going in for a wipe, I just grab a bunch of paper off the roll, crumble it all together and go to town until I'm firing dry. Today, however, for whatever reason, I decided to be a fancy gentleman about my shit and fold the toilet paper instead of wadding it together. As I was folding, I noticed a brown spot under one of the sheets. I folded it over and found a small, live brown spider had been chilling in my role of toilet paper. Without thinking, I brushed the little guy off and cleaned myself up. It wasn't until 10 minutes later when I was having my coffee that it occurred to me how, on any other day, I would jammed a live spider into my ass.
Now, I'm not afraid of spiders at all. I grew up in a house that was lousy with them. I saw them all the time in every room of my childhood home. For fuck sake, they would crawl on the ceiling of our shower and I wouldn't bat an eye. However, if I had not decided to fold up the toilet paper yesterday, there is a very real chance that I would have shoved a living insect into my anus and I've been having a hard time coming to terms with that.
I could see how that would unnerve you. If you had a vagina, you would have been able to push the spider back out. Food for thought.