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 screaming coaches, critics, being poor, and more.
Before we get to the Funbag, just a reminder that I'll be reading in Milwaukee tomorrow night at 7 p.m. at Boswell Book Company, followed by all of us going out and getting drunk on cheddar-flavored ale. Then, on Thursday night, I'll be in Chicago reading at the Book Cellar at 7 p.m. Come one, come all. Now, your letters:
Do you think the Internet played any role in preventing the NFL and NBA from waging extended work stoppages? This wasn't like 1994, when there was no Internet around for people to shit all over the baseball owners and players every day.
Well, the NHL canceled the entire 2004-2005 season, well after the dawn of Intertubes. HOWEVAH, that was still before social networks like Facebook and Twitter really took off, and before the not-terribly-legendary MSM/Blog War Of Ought Eight. And the NHL isn't as popular as football or basketball, so the lockout didn't exactly spur national outrage at the time. I'm still of the mind that most professional sports owners are deathless greedbots who have the supernatural ability to remain permanently tone deaf to public opinion and ENJOY being powerful enough to deprive Americans of an entire sport. They are HUGE, GAPING CUNTS, and always will be.
But it's gotta wear on you if you're one of the principals involved in these negotiations, and every single day brings a new round of verbal abuse your way. Even if you tune it out, you're still well aware of its presence. Back in 1994, you didn't have instant Twitter alerts telling you that talks broke down and that it was all Jeffrey Kessler's fault, because Jeffrey Kessler deserves to be force-fed a gallon of melted steel. All you had was Lupica braying about Don Fehr on The Sports Reporters once a week, and it's impossible to take sides in a douche-off between those two. I don't think the presence of the Internet and social networks had a direct role of helping these negotiations along, but I do think that it certainly adds a certain amount of stress to your workload when you have literally thousands of people shouting at you to EAT SHIT AND DIE if you can't figure things out.
I just made a glorious discovery and I need to share it. After tearing off a piece of TP upon finishing my business, I dropped the piece right on the heating vent. My heater was furiously trying to warm my house, as it is wont to do, and so quickly baked the TP to a surprisingly pleasing temperature. I don't know if the Japanese have already discovered this, to go along with their heated toilet seats, but it was fairly glorious and I recommend it to all.
Well now, I know what to do with the baby wipe warmer I never actually used on my child.
Where is the worst place in America to live if you are poor? Like working poor, not homeless poor. I think it is Los Angeles because when you are working poor, your car is 15 years old and breaks down a lot and LA seems to be the worst place to live and have a bad car to rely on. My buddy says it would be worse in New York City with everything being twice the price of the rest of the country.
Manhattan is awful because it seems like EVERYONE in the city is rich except for you. I made $25,000 my first year working in New York, which is a perfectly fine amount of money if you're single and you live virtually anywhere else, but it's basically the Manhattan equivalent of living on food stamps. On that kind of salary, the only apartment you can afford is a North Korean-style jail cell in a sixth-floor walk-up. Meanwhile, every other person you see walking on the sidewalks is toting around a handbag that costs more than your organs on the black market. I remember walking around on the streets and seeing disgustingly expensive restaurants PACKED with motherfuckers. Who were all these people? How the fuck can SO many people afford shit that costs THIS much? Then you open up New York magazine or the fucking Times and they're reviewing restaurants that have a $300 prix fixe menu. It's mind-boggling. Living in New York means feeling every single day like you have no hope of keeping up. For a small percentage of the population, the One Percent sure has a lot of people in it. Cocksuckers.
I have a coworker who finds a way to bring up the fact she lived through Hurricane Katrina almost every single day. There will be a conversation she's not involved in where Louisiana is briefly mentioned and she will intercede with a story about New Orleans or Katrina. Am I a jerk for being sick of hearing about it and wanting to strangle her? Or does living through something like that give her the right to talk about all the time?
It depends on what she had to live through. Personally, if I were someone who had to be airlifted from a rooftop during the floods and the helicopter carried me away just before the building collapsed, I would walk around with a sandwich board over my head that read I WAS SOMEONE WHO HAD TO BE AIRLIFTED FROM A ROOFTOP DURING KATRINA AND THE HELICOPTER CARRIED ME AWAY JUST BEFORE MY BUILDING COLLAPSED. I'd Giuliani that shit until your ears bled. Shit man, I had to rake my yard a week ago and I still won't shut the fuck up about it. THE LEAVES WOULDN'T STOP FALLING.
But if this was just some random lady who fled town and then came back to a relatively functional apartment when all was said and done, then fuck her. You have to EARN your tragedy braggadocio. You better have had to clean up a pile of rubble and dead bodies before you go injecting Katrina into every conversation you have. "These bagels aren't very spicy! NOT LIKE THE WAY THEY MAKE 'EM DOWN IN OL' KATRINA COUNTRY HOOO WEEE LEMMETELLYABOY."
By the way, speaking of obnoxious Louisianans, I'd like to issue a stern FUCK YOU to all GEAUX TIGERS and GEAUX SAINTS cheers on Twitter and Facebook. Enough. I get it. You're from Louisiana and you've got your own fancy culture with jazzy funerals and crawfish heads and all that shit. There's no need to get all fucking obnoxious about it. I've had just about enough of Proud Cajun Folk. Most of you people don't even wear shoes. GO FUCK YEAUXSELF.
I saw this car in the parking lot while leaving work today. I work for a children's hospital.
That is one randy Subaru lesbian.
My whole life, I avoided mustard. With the exception of Honey Mustard on a chicken sandwich, I never put any mustard (yellow, spicy or ground) on a hot dog and I only ordered a McD/BK burger ketchup only. Well, all of a sudden I can't get enough of it, I put it on burgers, hot dogs, deli sandwiches like it's a high-priced commodity. What the fuck? I now feel like I have been missing out for years because I've been too much of a pussy to try it.
Take heart. That just means your palette is evolving and you're open to trying new things. Don't regret the time you didn't spend with mustard. Instead, be grateful for all the time you're ABOUT to spend with it. Besides, you may not have been ready for mustard at a younger age. It might have literally tasted bad to you then, as opposed to now. I'm the same way with dill pickles. When I was a kid, I hated dill pickles and I never gave them a fair shake. But just the other day, they gave me a pickle spear with my Italian sub. Normally, I just throw that shit away. Instead, I tucked it into the sub and suddenly I had a MOUTHPARTY. It was delightful. It was like a whole new door of gluttony opened up before me. Like giving birth to a very small pickle to call my own. I couldn't be more excited.
And that's not the only food cherry I haven't popped. I have NEVER eaten a cheeseburger in my life. Ever. I've always ordered hamburgers plain. And whenever someone gave me a cheeseburger by accident, I would scrape the cheese off because it weirded me out. Given that I like cheese, this is lunacy. I should never do this. And so, tomorrow, I'm going to Milwaukee and I'm getting a Sobelmans burger, which has cheese bleeding out of every orifice. I AM NOT AFRAID.
I was on a business trip once in Vancouver (it was supposed to be for business; I mostly smoked weed and avoided my duties), and I was at a restaurant with this one guy and he asked me what I was gonna have. And I told him my plans (NOTE: Whenever I tell someone of my ordering plans, I secretly hope they display sheer awe at the boldness of my choice and that my order causes them to rethink their entire ordering process), and he said to me, "Dude, you can get that anywhere. You should only order the shit here that you can't get anywhere else." And he was RIGHT. So that's my food mantra for life now. I'm trying new things and keeping an open mind. Except for mayo. Mayo is repugnant.
811 is the national "Call Before You Dig" phone number. Texas has a special plate promoting it. This lady thinks she's promoting Damage Prevention and she is SO happy about it.
I wonder who is going to break the news to her? A passer-by? The creepy uncle? Her priest? Did she intend it to mean Double Penetration and used Damage Prevention as a ruse to pull a one over on the fine folks at the DMV??
I CAN'T STAND THE SUSPENSE! I need to know how the story of the Double Penetration Diva ends!
How do you know she wasn't the mastermind behind the entire thing? Look at that lady and tell me she doesn't enjoy a quiet night of hot double-pronged action.
If I can have some one night stands and never see the chicks again, could I still gain Dad Strength? Or would I actually have to give a crap about the kids to get the trade off?
No, you have to give a crap about the kids to get it. You have to pick up babies and put them down and pick up screaming toddlers while they bite your arm and try to wriggle free (great for working the core muscles). My kid got really pissed at me the other day for washing her pants (not worth explaining) and she started punching the shit out of my leg. Only she's very small and very weak, so I just stood there absorbing her blows and I laughed in her face. MWAHAHAHAHA. YOU THINK THAT HURTS ME?! I AM INVINCIBLE. Then she kept at it for about an hour and it eventually did kinda hurt, but still! I AM PUNCHPROOF. I felt like a god.
I am watching Chopped and someone just dumped a liter of truffle oil on her asparagus. Marc Murphy started freaking out immediately. What is the biggest mistake you could make on Chopped? Red onions with Scott Conant hosting? Truffle oil for Marc Murphy? Pronouncing Tomatillo incorrectly for Aaron Sanchez? Or anything that upsets Zakarian?
Don't forget about failing to let the meat rest. How could you not let your meat rest? You had twenty minutes to prepare a full rack of lamb with Jolly Ranchers and human breast milk. Are you telling me you didn't reserve ten minutes of that time to allow the meat to rest and the juices to set? That tells me you aren't serious about winning THE TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS. This is a real competition here! Other big "Chopped" blunders:
-Mislabeling your dish. THIS IS NOT A TRUE BANH MI. Santos goes all batshit about that.
-Just throwing one of the basket ingredients onto the plate at the end. "For me, you treated the licorice as a throwaway garnish."
-Making a goddamn Napoleon.
-Undercooking the bacon. Zakarian will stab your parents in front of you for that.
-Careless handling of raw poultry. I saw one episode where two chefs made raw chicken and none of the judges would eat the shit. It was so awkward. It's like watching a football game no one wants to win.
-Being the token "butch lesbian from the UK with terrible hair" contestant. Those poor girls never win, usually because their hands are FILTHY.
Since we started watching food shows, my fiancee and I suddenly turn into douchebag judges and feel the need to critique everything. For example, we were at a wedding last night, and I found myself thinking "these mashed potatoes are good, but they're missing a crunch to offset the soft texture of the potatoes" and "the chocolate part of the cake is cooked perfectly with just the right amount of sugar, but the white cake is very dense and dry". My fianceé also made the comment that the chicken's skin was crispy, which "gave it a nice contrast with the meat". I know you watch the show. Do you find yourself doing the same thing, and is there any cure?
Nope. No cure for Judge-itis. It's infiltrated everything I do. It's not just a food thing, either. The recent run of reality shows presided over by fuckhead judges has turned ALL OF US into little mini-judges. I can't just sit back and enjoy things now. I listen to a song and I get worked up over the drum levels. I eat a tub of ice cream and I belittle its lack of silkiness. I watch a movie and I write the imaginary review of it in my head as I'm watching it, which is counterproductive because A) I'm not a movie critic, B) I'm missing out on my chance to really lose myself in Puss In Boots. It's fucking annoying to experience things with that kind of clinical detachment. It's we're all being trained to be residents of Los Angeles. I don't like it one bit. I give the whole trend a 4.5.
Do you think there's a person that has dedicated their entire life to developing teleportation technology? There has to be some secret government project about this, right?
Well, I assume Big Teleportation is still testing it out before doing a big market rollout in 2032 (you'd be shocked at the lead time required for new products). But seriously, I'm sure there are people out there dedicated to the cause. I just don't happen to know any of them. Everyone I know is dedicated to avoiding work and finding ways to drink while parenting. I don't know who these magical people are that have both the education and financial backing to look into the development of crucial future products like the portable death ray, the teleporter, and the Invisibility Cloak, which is a real thing. I am greatly worried that this country, in particular, is running out of such people. Sometimes, I look at my TV remote in awe and I'm like, "Jesus, someone figured out how to MAKE this. They sat down and they engineered it, figuring out all the parts and processes needed for it to deliver 'Dave's Old Porn' to my TV set." That blows my mind. There can't be many people of that ilk out there. Once we've run out of them (and we will, given that no one can afford college anymore), we're all fucked.
I don't get the foaming-at-the-mouth, incensed phenotype of the football coach. Putting aside the OK-ness of this in any other social situation... Is it really, really productive?
I have no idea. Every time I watch Notre Dame play and Brian Kelly looks like he's about to eat one of his players whole, I think to myself, "What a fucking red cunt. No one's ever gonna want to play for that shithead." But then you turn the channel to an Alabama game and Nick Saban can pretty much pick any player he wants to suit up for him. Saban, of course, has a much more impressive resume than Kelly, and so you're more liable to believe he's yelling at you for a good reason, rather than just to be an asshole.
All I know is that when I played football, my only goal for every practice was to not get yelled at. I didn't care about doing a good job, or learning new techniques, or making myself into a better young man. None of that went through my head. All I cared about was making it from the beginning of practice to the end without being singled out and having my fucking face eaten in front of my teammates. Ditto for games. Whenever a coach yelled at you on the sidelines during a game in front of your friends and family, you wanted to fucking DIE. It's the worst feeling in the world. Now, I have no idea if that kind of motivation is actually good motivation, because you're essentially playing out of sheer terror and not with any kind of confidence or focus. I'm pretty sure I would have been an awful player either way. All I know is that no one wants to get yelled at by a coach. If we lost 56-0 and I didn't get yelled at, I was happy and considered my 25 beers for the evening well earned.
Let's say one of your kids will be executed unless an unspecified number of random children are killed in exchange. You will not be performing the execution(s) in either case, nor will you see the killing actually take place. No one would know it was your fault that their child had to die. How many younglings are you willing to exchange for your own pride and joy? Parents are batshit about their kids, so I'm thinking near genocides would be committed by most.
Ditto. If they told me five million kids had to die to keep my precious Junior alive, well then tough shit for them. That's just how people operate. You care about your own because trying to care about everyone everywhere would leave you paralyzed and weepy. Now I'm sure some SABER NERD would come and tell me that sacrificing five million kids for the sake of just one of my own was illogical and counterproductive, but that SABER NERD would fail to see how MAGICAL my child is. They wouldn't see my kids' intangible scrappiness, the kind you need to build a winning civilization.
One weekend this summer, my friend and I devised a plan to get each of us laid. He was sort of hooking up with this girl at the time, and she lived nearby a new club that was opening up not too far from our own town (they had met at school and just happened to live near each other). The plan was that we would go to her house, pregame
with her and her hopefully hot friends, then go to the club, where I would try to game random girls/her friends and he would get more drunk with her and wingman for me
wherever possible. We would then return to her house, where I had a couch claimed in the finished basement. Her parents weren't home, so they could easily use her bedroom for their imminent sexy time.
Alas, the end of the night rolled around and I found myself empty-handed (not surprisingly). We returned to my friend's girl's house and I retired to the basement. Her family computer was located in the basement. Being alone, I helped myself to the unprotected computer and at least began a pleasant solo session. I was VERY drunk, and to this day, I honestly do not remember whether or not I finished. I probably did. However, I argue that it does not matter: I operated within a private browsing session, and
If I did finish, I certainly either a) used a tissue or b) wiped the floor thoroughly with my sock before passing out on the couch.
He was appalled to hear this story and claims I'm some sort of low-life pervert. I maintain that I committed a victimless crime, and perhaps no crime at all. No harm no foul.
Your thoughts? Am I a danger to society, or justifiably resourceful?
I do my best not to engage in such shenanigans on other people's computers, mostly because I'd be afraid of someone tracing it back to me. Knowing me, I'd probably instantly get the hostage CPU infected with malware and have to spend the rest of the night running my old Norton Disk Doctor floppy disks on the thing to wipe it clean. I couldn't tolerate that kind of humiliation. In a way, I admire your boldness. Your only mistake was telling your tightass friend. As always, if you are alone and no one can hear you/see you, THAT IS ACCEPTABLE JERKING SPACE. If you tell no one, it didn't happen.
Besides, you were courteous enough to enable private browsing in order to fap on your friend's girlfriend's dad's computer, which is more considerate than most people. Besides, he failed to password protect his desktop, which made him fair game for REDTUBE PENETRATION.
I was taking a number 2 in the work bathroom today. There I am pushing my way through when semen started to come out of my penis.
Now I wasn't in any way erect, there was no pleasure associated, it just seemed like a couple of drips of my spunk came out as I was pushing.
Is this normal or did something really strange happen? I just sat there looking extremely confused and to be honest it took me a few minutes to regain my composure. Have I invented shunk (shit spunk)?
A quick Google search suggests (I searched "symptom involuntary ejaculate," which will be fun when my wife discovers it on Autofill) that this could be the result of an enlarged prostate. You need to see a doctor about it. It's not as alarming as seeing pure motor oil come out of your meatus, but it's still a legit concern.
Email of the week time.
I was 14 years old doing my penance for the school year of fun on my aunt and uncle's ranch. After a 12 hour day we were all having dinner and Patron, my uncle, walks in. He tells Pepe that he wants Pepe and me to go into the pasture and kill the three old rams, in his broken Spanish. They were too old to make decent babies. Needless to say I was stoked. I grab a .30-06 and some shells, grinning ear to ear. Pepe decides its about time I learn how to kill shit.
I quickly dispatch the first with a shot through the lungs. Then cut its throat. Well the other two know the game is up and start running everywhere. I shoot the next just below and behind the front shoulder, instant kill shot. The third jumps the fence. We chase it down like Richard Kimble, only successfully, rope it, and then cut its throat.
Fucked up thing is the skulls with the horns are worth money, so I got an axe and pretended I was an executioner be-heading enemies of the crown in 1200 London, before that Magna Carta bullshit. I thoroughly enjoyed every minute of it.
How am I not a serial killer?
By the way it takes about 3 or 4 swings to be-head a ram with an axe.