Time for your weekly edition of the Deadspin Funbag. Got something on your mind? Email the Funbag. Today, we're covering the Olympics, terrible Twitter feeds, and more.
I was horsing around with one of my kids last night and she started doing jumping jacks, so I did a jumping jack too and HOLY SHIT NEVER DO JUMPING JACKS. I forgot that, as you grow older, your balls drop lower and lower. And so doing a jumping jack is basically akin to putting two baseballs in a plastic bag, then shaking that plastic bag and watching the balls tear out of the bottom. The testicular recoil is ASTOUNDING. I couldn't move for ten minutes. Jumping jacks are pure evil.
So I went to visit a college friend who lives in a different state. I lost my iPhone there and got a new phone. My buddy found the phone and has had it in his possession for a couple of months. On the phone are couple of videos of my girlfriend giving me a bj.
What are the odds that my buddy has watched/fapped to the videos? Do I now have permanent bragging rights if he beat off to a video with me in it?
Why hasn't he mailed it back to you yet? Shouldn't he have returned it to you immediately? If it had been my friend's phone, I would have mailed it back. Barring that, I probably wouldn't go snooping around in the phone SPECIFICALLY because I wouldn't want to stumble upon a blowjob video. You have to understand what a conflict of interest that is for the common pervert. On the one hand, PORN. On the other hand, hey that's my friend's penis. That's kinda disturbing.
Let's say your friend tells you a story about a wild night he had with some sexy lady. That might give you a mental image of him and the girl having sex, and you might find that a turn-on. But when it comes to fappin' time, what do you do? I'll tell you what most men do: They tag their friend out of the fantasy and jump into the fray themselves. They don't want to keep their friend in the fantasy because then, technically, they're fapping TO their friend, which causes all sorts of conflicted feelings and gay panic.
So my guess is that your friend, hopefully, did the right thing and left your phone alone until you came to retrieve it. But if he was a nosy lady and went looking for trouble, you can bet that he watched that video, turned off the phone, and swapped in his peepee for yours.
After watching the Silva-Sonnen fight, my friends and I came to the topic of knocking out a cow. The question is, can you one-hit quit a heifer? I know you or I would have no chance, but could Mike Tyson in his prime put a cow down? Also, glove vs. no glove is an issue. I think he could do it bare-knuckle, but the cow could take it with a boxing glove on.
Think of it in terms of a boxing match. The average cow weighs 1,660 pounds. Reports of Tyson's prime weight vary between 200-220 pounds. That makes the cow eight times heavier than Tyson. That's a cowweight taking on a heavyweight.
Now imagine if Tyson gave a free punch to someone an eighth of his size. That's a twenty-pounder. That's a two-year-old. That punch isn't gonna drop Tyson. So while I'd like to think that Tyson could pull a Mongo on poor old Bessie, the SCIENTICIAN in me says that the disparity in weight classes makes such a feat unlikely.
HOWEVER, it should be noted that legendary British prison veteran Charles Bronson (the one from that Tom Hardy movie, not the actor) wrote a book about staying fit in jail, and in that book Bronson claims to have knocked out a cow. In fact, that's just one of Bronson's many odd claims:
He flosses his nostrils with twine, cleans out his stomach by swallowing lengths of cloth and pulling them back out of his mouth, and has sufficient muscular control to irrigate his colon by sitting in a bowl of water.
Hamilton Nolan is impressed.
The food at the Jr. High I teach at is atrocious, so most days I pack my lunch. When I'm too lazy to make lunch I usually settle with a crappy salami sandwich. Salami makes my ass reek of rotten eggs and sour milk for about 2 hours after lunch. Holding in a fart is the worst feeling in the world, and middle schoolers are the worst people on the planet, so I just let them rip as I walk through the classroom as punishment for being such little cocksuckers all day.
This got me thinking, who would you like to crop-dust with your salami-farts the most? The Queen of England? Keanu Reeves? The U.S. Women's Gymnastics Team? Or would you rather bask in your own glory and taste it for yourself? Everyone loves their own brand.
Before I answer your question, let me just endorse salami as a regular in your lunch rotation. I'm on a big salami lunch run of late. I buy half a pound of salami and half a pound of provolone at the grocery store and for lunch I like to roll up some of the salami and some of the cheese so that they MAKE DIRTY SALTY LOVE TO ONE ANOTHER. I've eaten salami and cheese for lunch for, like, twenty straight days and I still haven't gotten sick of it. I love a good run of lunches. Ever take a shit that looks like it's been sitting in the toilet for a week even though you just dropped it?
Anyway, my list of crop-dusting victims would probably have as many obvious choices as yours:
• Kim Kardashian
• The Brant Brothers
• Aaron Sorkin
• Mike Francesa
• Bryant Gumbel
• Bob Costas
• Randy Edsall
• The Aurora shooter
• Virtually every cable news pundit, including Rachel Maddow. I know dirty libruls love talking about how much classier Maddow is than other pundits, but fuck that. I'd probably enjoy farting in her face more than even Hannity's.
• Mitt Romney
• Padma Lakshmi/Geoffrey Zakarian
Remember, you shouldn't choose victims simply based on whether or not you don't like them. You should also choose people who would be the MOST repulsed by your farts and would therefore offer the funniest reaction. It's nothing personal, Padma. You're a classy lady. But God, I just wanna muffle your face with my asscheeks and see what happens when you have to take in day-old beef fumes.
So this guy apparently drove off with a gas pump in his BMW without noticing, then got on the 405. Everyone around him was honking and yelling, trying to get his attention, but he just stared straight ahead obliviously. Finally we pulled even with him, and I threw Icebreakers Sours at his window until he realized what was going on and pulled over. Oh, and his vanity plates say ARCITKT. Genius.
Couldn't have happened to a better guy. You BMW drivers deserve everything bad that happens to you.
What is the best brand and strength of talcum powder AND how do you apply to your undercarriage without making your fellow inhabitants think you have a cataclysmic coke problem?
I personally use Triple Action Gold Bond powder. However, I think my nuts have grown far too tolerant of it. When you're 18, Triple Action Gold Bond stings your balls like a butane torch. After years and years of use? I think the fromunda develops an immunity. It may be best to buy a couple of different powders and use them in a rotation, so that your balls never know what's coming. One day, they get corn starch. The next? STINGING BLEACH POWDER. It would really keep your scrotum on its toes.
In a perfect world, you would apply your Gold Bond in the shower and then it gets washed down the drain with the next showering. But I'm too lazy to step back into the shower after drying off. I just let that shit fall on the bathroom floor and then my wife yells at me and then I'm like IT'S THIS OR STANK BALLS, MISSY. DEAL WID IT.
Congratulations, you've just invented the device used by Sandra Bullock and Sylvester Stallone in Demolition Man where you can have virtual sex with a device strapped to your head and your eyes closed. How much would be the minimum you would charge for 5 minutes with this device?
So I'm renting it out? I think you could get away with charging $20 at first, and then upping the fee as word of mouth of the device's effectiveness spread. HOWEVER, think of the mess. You'd have to find a "jizz room" so that clients could use the device privately, and that room would have to be cleaned CONSTANTLY. If you have virtual reality headgear on while pleasing yourself, you will have NO CLUE where the skeet went upon completion. 90% of all clients would accidentally wipe their jizz onto the device itself, putting it in grave danger of short circuiting. You'd be making thousands of dollars day, but would it be worth it to mop up the Houston 500 every hour or so? I would likely rent the device out in hour-long blocks to extremely high-end clientele. My virtual brothel would be the CLASSIEST.
If weed could talk, would it totally be chill with us smoking it, or would it be pissed because we're totally killing it?
It's long dead by the time you've smoked it, so it wouldn't be crying out for help while you were setting it on fire with your Bic lighter. You'd be smoking weed's corpse, which is so crazy when you, like, think about it mannnnnnnnn.
The only time you would hear weed talk is if you were a pot grower, and that would be decidedly inconvenient for you. Nothing draws the attention of the five-oh like a talking pot plant. LOOK AT ALL THAT WATER YOU'RE SPRAYING ON MY LEAVES, MAN. THAT IS SOOOOO WET.
What is the pecking order among athletes within the Olympic village? You've got to assume that the NBA players, and any recognizable names (Bolt, Phelps etc) are at the top, and that anybody who has ever ridden a horse is at the bottom.
The NBA players don't even stay at the Olympic village, which kind of defeats the purpose of playing in the Olympics for free, because if you're a rich NBA player you can hang out at a luxury hotel any time. I don't think that the pecking order in the village is necessarily dictated by your sport. I think there are a couple of other critical factors:
1. Have you finished competing? If you're done competing, then that means you have time to get drunk and have sex with other people. Michael Phelps has this entire week off. He could lay waste to that village for the next seven days if he chose to.
2. Did you medal? Because no one wants to blow a seventh place finisher. But get a gold medal in even one of the boring sports like rowing and people are gonna talk to you. After all, loogit those rowing boners!
3. Can you speak a fairly common language such as English? It's gonna be hard for you to socialize if you speak in a regional Romanian dialect that's comprehensible to exactly three other people in the village, two of whom are related to you.
4. Do you live in a free country? Something tells me the Chinese government isn't exactly keen on letting its medalists smoke pot in the Mexicans' dorm room.
5. Do you have teammates? Having teammates to pal around the village with makes you look cool and popular. The poor skeet shooter from Latvia who doesn't know anyone is really gonna feel left out. It's not fair. And finally ...
6. Are you attractive? It kinda matters.
Based on all that, I'd say the most popular possible person in the Olympic village would be a gold medal winning Australian swimmer. Ladies love themselves the Aussies.
How do you think the 92' Dream Team would do in these Olympics if they represented the United States instead of this year's team at their current age? I'm pretty sure Old Jordan, Magic, and Bird could still at least get the Bronze and beat Nigeria by 30.
No fucking way. Have you seen Magic Johnson lately? He's the size of a steakhouse. Here are the current ages of every player on that roster:
Christian Laettner: 42
David Robinson: 47
Patrick Ewing: 50
Larry Bird: 55
Scottie Pippen: 46
Michael Jordan: 49
Clyde Drexler: 50
Karl Malone: 49
John Stockton: 50
Chris Mullin: 49
Charles Barkley: 49
Those are some old-ass men. I assume a handful of these men are still in fairly good shape (Stockton, Robinson, Malone), but many of them are either remarkably out of shape (Charles, Ewing) or hampered by injury (Bird). Even Jordan has grown beefy in middle age. I don't think they'd have a prayer of beating a seasoned international team, particularly given that international teams have so vastly improved since 1992. But I'm sure the resulting Rob Reiner comedy based on their efforts would prove mirthful.
After watching the football stadium explosion in The Dark Knight Rises, I have questions. Would Hines Ward be a media darling who writes a book, does all the talk shows, etc., or would he be wracked by guilt for being the only on-field survivor, fall into depression & never play again? And how many weeks of games would Roger Goodell have to cancel?
I'm just shocked that Ward didn't execute an illegal crackback block on Bane before the detonation. Anyway, after the implosion, I think Hines would do the book. He's a media-savvy fellow. He's good at whoring himself out and simultaneously getting analysts to be like, "Hines Ward is a CLASS ACT." Simon & Schuster would give him $2 million to write That Sinking Feeling: My Terrifying Day Running from Tragedy. He'd do the Today show, maybe even a 60 Minutes segment (I think Scott Pelley would be his interviewer), then he'd return to play with the Gotham City Rogues in their temporary stadium located in Gotham suburb Cranston Estates (which would remain out of Bane's control, as he has seized Gotham Island for months).
I think Goodell would take one week off to commemorate the tragedy, and then go right back to playing football under the excuse of, "We want to restore a sense of normalcy," which is always a cheap way of saying, "We're selfish assholes and we'd like to start making money again." Peter King would write a 6,000-word story about Goodell AGONIZING over the decision, 5,000 words of which would discuss Peter's roto team struggling. Then football would resume at the temp stadium, with Hines and a motley crew of scrappy walk-ons. Then they would finish the season 1-15 and that one win would be turned into a Disney movie called Going Rogues that would be heavily promoted on ESPN during the NBA playoffs. I give that movie NO STARS.
I'd just had a long day at work and I was hungry, so I decided to walk the two blocks to the awesome greasy Mexican heart attack factory by my apartment. Since I was only gonna be gone for like 5 minutes, I just threw on some gym type stuff. Sweats, old sneakers. No big deal. Not looking like a hobo, but not trying to impress anybody either. Just minding my business, picking up some take out like a normal city-dwelling youngish dude.
So I'm almost there, when all of a sudden, this group of loud obnoxious youths, clearly up to no good, comes bursting around the corner, and this girl, maybe 15 or 16, randomly comes right up to me all, "I really like your shoes! Where did you get them?" And I'm like "Thanks" and take a sec, because I honestly don't remember where I bought them. So I'm trying to get my old, slow, addled brain to turn over, when Gen. Mean Girl over here starts a chorus of snickering and POINTING!!!
And now I have a group of teenagers laughing at my sneakers - the sneakers of a complete stranger - in the middle of the street! I was kind of too in shock to say anything, so I just ran away, ordered an extra burrito, and went home to shame eat and cry alone in the dark. But I still can't decide, as an adult and a stranger, what would have been the proper response to this situation? A lecture? Violence? Some sort of witty "Jerk Store" type rejoinder? And why does everyone allow teenagers to be such HUGE dicks in public all the time?
It's true. We really need to round up all teenagers and force them into military duty abroad. That way, they aren't harassing poor Rock and crowding up our movie theaters. We send them away, and they either come back A.) dead; B.) traumatized into permanent silence; or C.) disciplined and productive. That's a win-win-win, if you ask me. Teenagers shouldn't be allowed to roam freely, grinding down public stairwells on the GLOREE BOY skateboards and browbeating our underdressed working class with poorly disguised sarcastic compliments. SHIP THEM ALL AWAY. Or make them fight to the death. I read "The Hunger Games" and liked it because that book is like porn for cranky old people.
Anyway, your response to the situation was pretty much exactly what I'd do. And I'd spend the rest of my life replaying the scenario in my head, over and over again, thinking of up new ways of putting those young ragamuffins in their place. Pull a gun on them? Tell the girl "this shoe looks even better jammed up your pussy"? Make a balled fist and say MY NAME IS FUCK OFF, THAT'S MY NAME? All those options are in play. I don't really know what the right move is. Ignoring them is the dignified thing to do. You never want to feed the trolls. BUT GOD DAMMIT IT WOULD FEEL GOOD TO PULL OUT A BIG FUCKING KNIFE AND TEACH THOSE SHITS A LESSON THEY WON'T SOON FORGET.
A friend of mine found this list in the East Village and we have no idea what it means. I like to think it's the guest list for the greatest dinner party of all time.
What if it's an assassin's to-do list? Surely we'd all like JA JA BINKS cold and dead in the ground. I'd be fascinated to figure out what common thread links all these people, from Yeezy to Darth Vader. Maybe they're all on Scientology's GAY BLACKMAIL LIST.
I'm sitting here at my computer, and it's nighttime, and the room is dark. It occurs to me that something tiny is crawling slowly up the inside of my right thigh inside my shorts, making its way towards my crotch area. I'm familiar with this particular small-thing-crawling-on-skin sensation, because I live in the sticks. I'm sure it's a tick.
So, I go reaching up and under and through the leg of my shorts to isolate the little bastard and get him the hell out of there. But it's late and I'm tired and more than a little flustered, and I lose track of the goddamn thing. Now I have fumbled him. He's no longer on my skin, but maybe he's loose in the shorts? I can't find him anywhere. Not on my leg, not on the floor, not on the desk, not in my shorts (which are now splayed out on the floor). He's either vanished into thin air, hidden himself somewhere in this room, or voyaged into the wilds of my genital area and the relative camouflage of my pubic hair.
How totally fucked am I? I feel like this thing is going to emerge sometime next week in a fountain of gore from somewhere near my Adam's apple. Like there'll be an x-ray in my future showing a massive two-pound tick hanging off my liver. What do I do?
Calm down. Relax. First of all, are you dead certain it's a tick? Because you usually have to venture outside and stage a two-hour indian wrestling match with an elk in order to get a tick on you. They don't normally hang out inside. It's possible it was just a brown recluse spider. Or a roach. Or a very small human murderer.
If I were you, I would quickly drink four beers. I find that drinking alleviates a great deal of bug paranoia. After the beers, I would then strip down, hop into the shower (with a shower beer), and give myself a thorough tick check, from ankle to asshole. Check for ticks and for small bullseye rashes. If you see nothing, double check the next morning after drinking more and passing out. If you're still clean, go to the bathroom and fap. Your mind should be freed from the terror by then.
From now on, since you apparently have an office located inside a peat bog, wear jeans at all times, with the jeans tucked into the socks. Then spray your ankles with OFF. This is your tick gear, and it never failed me during the Great Lyme Scare of '88.
If there was a ratio comparing how funny a comedian is/was on stage vs. how funny that person is on Twitter, don't you think Jerry Seinfeld would be the winner for most disappointing comedian on Twitter? I was a big fan of his TV show, but he is just awful on Twitter. It's like my Grampa on Twitter.
It's true. There's something deeply mortifying about it. I wanna find his computer, access his login, and erase the thing entirely. Just for his own good. The folks at GQ recently did a great piece called the 14 most annoying people on Twitter. One of the ones left on the cutting room floor were "comedians who use Twitter exclusively to pimp their next appearance at the Haha Hole." I also proposed:
• Comedians who turn into liberal pundits on Twitter
• Darren Rovell
• The foodie who goes on and on about a meal you'll never get to eat. "OMG AMAZING meal at Momofuku! Steamed buns, Korean fried chicken, Fruity Pebbles milk ice cream! STUFFED!"
• The politician who tries to cram an entire rebuttal into 140 characters and fails. "Obama edu'tion plcy not supportive of REAL AMERICANS. trying to use ur hard earned tx dollars to subsdize failing schools. Isnt about time that we let grwnnups in charge? Also, Iran policy trrbl"
• Athletes who think they're funny
• The 200,000 people on Twitter who spend every day trying to be Mitch Hedberg. "Don't you find it totally appropriate that the moon is constantly showing us its backside?"
• Celebrities who use Twitter exclusively to talk with other celebrities
Gwyneth Paltrow @GwynethPaltrow
@rihanna say whaaat?
• The celebrated writer who reveals himself on Twitter as an insecure writing dictator. "Write every day. No exceptions. You don't take a day off from breathing, do you?"
• And of course, people who never link to ANYTHING.
Email of the Week time.
SwaggaBra (NOTE: Female reader):
All this Olympic mumbo-jumbo and gymnastics coverage has me focused on one important issue: waxing. Those girls have to wax, right? There's no way they can wear those leotards and pull off those stunts without having a serious, foolproof and perfectly bare floor. But I've yet to see so much as a slight stubble. So the real question I have is, who, when, and where?
Is there a particular waxer that has a monopoly over giving post-pubescent gymnasts floor waxes? How do the girls find out about said waxer? And wouldn't that be a particularly awkward conversation with the parents-"Sooooo, mom, the carpet is beginning to get a little shaggy and my teammates have told me there's this guy...he drives a van...his business is called Gold Medal Grooming..." I'd like to point out that I'm female and therefore this question isn't quite as creepy. Emphasis on "quite."
Yeah, but I'm a creep if I answer it. FETCH THE BUBBAPROG.