I've been losing weight recently, and one of the joys of losing weight is overemphasizing my own awe at my body's transformation. "Why are my pants so loose? Why am I not sweating in my sleep? I feel stronger. More agile. WHAT'S HAPPENING TO MY BODY?" I'm not saying I'm becoming Spiderman, but I wouldn't rule out such things. Also, my old Kasabian shirt fits again. It's the little things. Onto your letters.

Carlos:

Me and my brother have come to the conclusion that whoever dies first will haunt the shit out of the other person. I'm gonna be a bad motherfuckin' ghost if I die, I will pull your teeth while you sleep, you bastard. FEAR ME.

Well, that's the main issue. Can you move around tangible objects when you're a ghost? Because that would be awesome. If you're a ghost, you have to be bored out of your mind, what with the whole stuck in purgatory business. The only thing there is to do if you're a ghost is spend most of your time fucking with the living. And so, like Carlos, I'd be a HUGE dick if I were a ghost. I'd turn on the faucets while you were taking a shit, just so you'd clench up, break off the turd, and get all mad. Also, I'd write out lots of vague messages on steamy bathroom mirrors. Shit like, THIS IS THE DAWN OF THE END. Also, I'd implore people in the house to avenge my death, even if I died normally. They don't know I died of a heart attack, so why not give them the illusion that I was murdered in the house, and that they must find the killer? OLD MAN JENKINS NEXT DOOR! YOU CAN'T TRUST HIM!

There are times, late at night, when my wife is asleep but I'm still tossing and turning, when I wonder if our house is haunted. It's not. But what if the specter of some old lady came through the wall and just stared at me? What would I do, apart from shit my pants? I visualize that shit, and then it fucks with me the rest of the night.

At college, one of the guys I sat on the football bench with told me his dorm room was haunted. One night, he was sleeping in his bed. He stirred, opened his eyes, and saw a dark figure standing by the bed. When he reached to touch the figure, his hand went through it. He turned on the light and there was nothing there. HAUNTED! Sure, he was almost certainly lying. But then again, there could have been a girl who had her throat slit by a demented professor in that very same room. I rule out nothing. Just once, I'd like to find myself in a haunted house or hotel room. Just so I can tell people of my brush with the paranormal.

I get very annoyed with reality shows about ghosts (like Ghost Hunters) that supposedly track ghosts and then come up with proof that includes a video still featuring a smudge of light glare. That's no ghost, you fuckers. Where are the chains?!

Dave:

My girlfriend (who I live with) is a moron. When she gets ready in the morning she will put her bra on, then her tank-top undershirt, then whatever shirt/sweater/blouse she decides to wear for the day. It is only after that process is complete that she decides to put deodorant on. Now that by itself is not weird, what is weird is how she puts the deodorant on. She goes DOWN through the NECK instead of up from the bottom of the shirt. The first time I saw this I almost shit myself, who the fuck wants to stretch the necks of their shirts out for deodorant?? GO THROUGH THE FUCKING BOTTOM LIKE EVERY NORMAL PERSON. What third world country is she from?

Your girl is not as moronic as you may think, good sir. Now, I almost always apply deodorant while shirtless. The only time I do it with a shirt on is if I have my shirt on, forget I put on deodorant, and am too lazy to remove my shirt to apply it. I find applying it with a shirt on to be deeply unsatisfying. I don't get to raise my arm all the way up and take a big swipe with the stick, as usual. I feel like Picasso when I do that. Plus, I get to stare at all the little deodorant bits now clinging to my pit hair. SO COOL.

The problem with putting on the deodorant with my shirt off is that sometimes, if I do that and then put on my shirt, little deodorant marks will somehow end up on the bottom of my shirt. I have no fucking idea how this happens, but it happens often enough for me to question my entire application process. So your girl may be applying the deodorant with a shirt on to avoid getting deodorant on the outside of the shirt. As for the neck thing, I dunno. Is she a Christian Scientist? That may explain it.

Mike:

I'm in the john after lunch yesterday. I don't read or anything in the john, I tend to kind of zone out. I just sit there quietly and wait for everything to be done. So this guy comes in, uses the urinal, and on his way out fucking bangs the shitter door with his fist. No words, just bangs the door and walks out. It literally scared the shit out of me. And almost gave me a heart attack.

That is so not right. Listen you angry people out there: We all know shitter doors are fun to take out your aggression on. They're very light, and flimsy, and easy to slam. Fun too, especially when shitfaced. Ever tear off a shitter door while drunk? It's quite something.

But be courteous to your fellow shitters. They have feelings too, you know.

Chip:

Who still uses regular deodorant and not deodorant/anti-perspirant? I mistakenly bought a stick of deodorant the other day, and was reminded of why it sucks when I had to use it.

Yeah, I don't get that at all. That's the kind of thing your mom buys you by accident. I dunno why'd you want to smell nice, but remain sweating like a hog. Perhaps it's an Italian thing.

Sean:

I have an afro. It is awesome. Everybody wants to touch it, which gets on my nerves sometimes, but with the ladies it's a good icebreaker. Don't you wish you could grow an afro?

Yes. Fuck you.

I went to a party once and a friend of mine brought an afro wig, which I promptly stole from his head and wore. And then everyone was like, "DREW WITH THE FRO!" And I was like, "Oh, fuck yeah!" Then my friend was like, "Okay, give me it back." And I was like, "Fuck that. THE FRO HAS FOUND ITS TRUE OWNER." Then another friend wanted to wear it. It was a power struggle for the afro wig, and only one man could come out on top.

So yes, I would like a big glorious afro. I ROCK ROUGH AND STUFF WITH MY DREWFRO PUFFS.

Chris:

Let's suppose - hypothetically - you were engaged to marry a girl who once, while very drunk celebrating her 21st birthday, made out with Wee Man (yes, the Jackass midget) in Vegas. Dealbreaker?

No. Marry her. It's not like she stored him in her vagina.

Ryan:

Since you seem to have an active daydreaming mind, I'm wondering if you ever have my most frequent one during long car drives: What if I just swerved my car off the side of the highway while going 80 mph? Not only do I envision doing this (while "fighting" the urge not to), but I also envision the police going to my parents/girlfriend to tell them, everyone I ever knew (and some people who don't know me) crying and mourning my death, a kickass funeral/eulogy, my girlfriend meeting another guy down the road and marrying him, etc. I have even caused my own eyes to start watering on occasion, but only because I throw myself in the moment and act like I'm one of the proletariat who will mourn my death. Is this weird or what? Note that I do not have any suicidal tendencies in the least bit, but a very active imagination.

Agreed. There is that part of my mind when I'm driving that's like, "Oh look! We're on a bridge! What if we just took a gander at the bottom of the Potomac there, fella?" It's just an odd thought that pops up. It has nothing to do with depression or anything like that. It's just one of those thoughts my mind processes and then discards. But that doesn't mean I don't think it. Like, I'll pick up a huge chef's knife and be like, "Damn, this is one bigass knife. What if I just plunged this fucker into my chest? That would be weird."

I absolutely do the thing where I picture my own death and then imagine everyone totally sad that I'm gone. MAYBE YOU PEOPLE WILL FINALLY LEARN TO APPRECIATE ME! I've also envisioned myself getting cancer and having this long, overwrought struggle, where everyone's crying and I record videos for my kids to watch when they get older. I totally blame that shitty movie My Life for that. I wish I'd never seen it. That movie is 100% cancer porn. "Now Jimmy, when I'm gone, you're going to need to learn how to shoot a jumpshot."

Jordan:

What would you rather own: a real-life Transformer or a real-life Terminator (Arnold Edition).

It really depends on maintenance costs. How much fuel does a Transformer need? Is Bumblebee there fueled by his own alien Transformer space rock shit? Or does he only get .00005 miles a gallon/step?

Regardless, I'd want the transformer. Jordan made a sound argument in a portion of his email for the Terminator, but with a Transformer you get both a robot AND a kickass vehicle of some sort. A Terminator is only a robot. And while it's nice, in theory, to use it to kill people, I actually don't want to kill anyone. And there's just no point in having a Terminator if you can't terminate with it. If I had a Terminator, I'd just make him stay up and guard the house. Also, I'd teach him to babysit. I bet he could learn to change a diaper without tearing the kid's leg off.

Joda:

How old is too old to wear cargo shorts?

It depends on weight. Since I'm a big guy, I look like a fucking slob in cargo shorts. This is a pity, as I find the extra pockets useful for things like phones, change, and hard candy. But I've seen pictures of myself in cargos, and I look like someone who can't get a fucking job. Once past college age, I think you're at the time where you must wear standard shorts without cargo pockets, particularly if you're fat.

Aside: When I was in school, my mom used to buy all my clothes (shocking, I know). She usually made fine choices, but occasionally she'd bring home something completely fucking outlandish. And the worst thing she ever brought me was a pair of Hugo Boss jorts. They were very baggy, hung below the knee, and the word BOSS was emblazoned in gold thread along the back bottom of the legs. I swear to God, I have never seen an uglier piece of clothing in my life. I almost burned them in front of her. They were returned.

Big Lebowski:

Do you ever get in your car, either late at night or very early in the morning, when it is pitch black outside, and imagine that someone is hiding in the back seat waiting to slit your throat?

Oh, yes.

It never fails that every time, I have to check the rearview mirror. My brother in law says he always pictures someone hiding under the car that will come out and slash his Achilles tendon. I don't picture myself fighting the attacker off. I picture myself getting fucking killed. What does this mean? Does it mean I'm a realist? Does it mean I'm a huge pussy? Or is it my subconscious just yearning for the sweet relief of death?

It means you're just scared of someone slitting your throat in the back of a car. Perfectly understandable. Remember, when you see that sort of thing in movies, the person in the front seat NEVER ends up avoiding death. They get fucking iced, and that is why you picture it likewise. Think of Carlo in The Godfather. He kicks through the windshield and everything when they strangle his ass. Such an ugly way to die.

If I'm driving at night, and the road is deserted, I constantly picture some madman and/or Mafioso springing up in the rearview and taking my goddamn head off. And that's when I start singing happy dance music to scare them away. CAN'T READ MY, CAN'T READ MY, NO HE CAN'T READ MY POKERRRR FACE!

Nelson:

Is there anything worse than getting Facebook invitations from people?

No, especially all that Mafia Wars bullshit. Or that, "Become a fan of…" shit. Fuck you. I'm not a fan.

Tanner:

Lately, whenever I'm in the passenger seat of a car and the door is visibly unlocked, I've been getting these almost irresistible urges to open the door in traffic. Sometimes I try to inch my hand as near to the handle as I can get without anyone noticing. Eventually, if the ride is long enough, I'll just lock the door (onlookers be damned!) and yank the handle to my heart's content. Am I alone in this?

I had a friend in grade school whose family had a van with a sliding door, and he always opened the door and liked to drag his foot along the road. AND HIS FUCKING MOM LET HIM! Oh, that's good 80's parenting.

If I'm in a car and there's a biker or pedestrian coming up, I have to fight the urge to open the door just as I get to them, completely ruining their shit. I mean, that is just such a nasty move. It's irresistible, the old "bash someone to death with a freshly opened car door" trick. It's 50 times more tempting when you're driving in Manhattan.

Last thing: when I'm parked on a street and my door is on the street side, I'm always horrified that, when I open my door, some car will come speeding from out of nowhere and take the thing right off. There's clearly enough room on the road to accommodate my open door. But that doesn't mean it CAN'T happen. FLYING DOOR!

FPD:

Is it just me, or do you get immense satisfaction out of doing the most mundane tasks on legal paper. I'm sitting here studying for an accounting exam, and I've just been ripping through practice problem after practice problem on some legal pads. Hell, after one a few hours of working on them I look like I'm preparing to make an appeal on behalf of Ruben Carter.

I took a night class in advertising once, and I drew all my spec ads on sheets of white paper. Even if it was just a headline, I used the whole sheet for just that one headline. So I'd come into class with a fucking giant stack of paper, which made it look like I had shitloads of ideas. I totally thought it would intimidate the other students. Look at him! He's got lots of paper! HE MUST BE A GENIUS.

Quetzal:

I hate restaurants that cut their pizzas into grids rather than slices. One of the beauties of pizza is that each serving has its own little handle. When Descartes cuts my pizza, I can't eat any of the internal, crustless pieces without making a mess of myself. On a related note, one of the best parts of having small children around is that they "hate the crust" and always leave some of the choicest bites right at the edge of the slice for me to finish.

Agreed. I prefer triangle slice to squares in all pizza-related matters. Triangle slices also allow for proper folding. I have been known to take middle slice of a square pizza and simply place them upside down on an edge piece, and then eat it as a double slice.

I have a one-year-old, and the kid loves gnawing on pizza crust. So my wife will ask me to save my pizza crust for him, and that completely fucks me up. I'm not supposed to give up my crust. I'm supposed to be a fucking crust landfill. That's the plus of being a dad. I get all the sandwich and pizza crusts and bread heels. WHO THE FUCK DOES THIS LITTLE BOY THINK HE IS?

HALFTIME!

Paul:

I've been drinking a lot of tea recently. The best part about tea is imagining the tea packet is a big boat. You put it on the water gingerly, and slowly watch its tiny cabins fill with water, until PREW! under like the Titanic. I imagine myself to be the water god, looking down at the foolish tea humans who thought they could create a tea bag no one could sink. I am Tea Poseidon! I shall not be mocked!

A lot of tea bags seem to sit on the surface of the water forever, which is when I take action and grab a spoon and jam that fucker right down to the bottom of the cup. THAT'LL TEACH YOU TO FLOAT, YOU LITTLE BAG OF TWININGS SHIT.

I like watch tea steep because it looks like the teabag is bleeding. MWAHAHAHAHA. Tonight, we feast on Earl Grey's blood.

Dodo:

How fucking awesome is Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory? Not that Johnny Depp shit. The one with the lunatic Gene Wilder. How fucking awesome would it be to go on that tour? The candy room where you can eat everything, the insane boat ride, drinking that stuff and flying, seeing all the shitty kids die horrible deaths. That's like the coolest thing ever.

I concur. When I was kid, I assumed every candy bar I ate might contain some kind of secret golden ticket, a potential prize not even mentioned on the wrapper. I never found such a ticket. But I did get to eat any number of 100 Grand bars.

That tour is the height of children's candy porn. And the reason why is because, when I was kid, there was no more thrilling sight that that of a buffet. Yes, this was because I was a fat kid. But, to any kid, the sight of a real buffet is like stumbling upon the fucking treasure room in King Tut's tomb. My grandparents once took me to this place that had a giant dessert buffet. Every fucking dessert you could imagine: ice creams, cakes, pies, puddings, trifles, jello, tarts, tortes. Everything. It was, like, twenty yards long. My head nearly exploded. I didn't even know where to start. I went back 900 times. Being a kid and seeing a buffet is like being an adult and having Megan Fox spread out naked in your bedroom. Only the desserts don't talk.

Ever go somewhere as a kid that had a dessert cart? Is there a shrewder piece of salesmanship than the dessert cart? It's one thing to see the chocolate ganache torte described on the menu. But now, here it comes on a wheeled cart for your viewing pleasure. So very, very close. You can almost taste it. Like I'm not ordering off a fucking dessert cart. I want to hijack the thing very time I see one. I wish my car were a dessert cart.

DeepFriar:

I enjoy looking in Pottery Barn. But how much crack would you need to smoke to rationalize their pricing scheme? $255 for outdoor chaise cushions? Zuh?

Secretly, I also don't mind being dragged into a Pottery Barn by the Mrs. I always find the most luxurious piece of furniture and sit down in it. Makes me feel like I live well and have many rich friends who vacation in Lombardy.

But yeah, that shit's way too expensive.

MT:

How many unarmed men, trapped in a hockey rink sized space, bare hands only, would it take to kill a full grown silver back gorilla. One roommate immediately threw out three. I think this is an absolute impossibility. No way you get this done with less than 10 and even then you're taking casualties, right? What are your thoughts? Strategy?

I love to think one day I could throw this out while interviewing a potential new employee and see how they react.

Well, lets' see. A male silverback can grow to 440 lbs. And, according to some random thing over at Yahoo Answers:

It should be sufficient to say that anecdotal evidence of animals observed almost casually bending and snapping objects such as tempered steel bars (2 inches thick) and giant bamboo stalks, suggest that the gorilla has the muscle power of between 8-15 men and possibly more. Jersey Zoos Jambo was observed to hang from one arm (he was over 400 lbs) while methodically ripping over 200 ft of inner ceiling planks from the roof of the new gorilla house with his other arm (the planks were securely screwed and nailed), simply because he didn't like them.

Goddamn. That's one strong monkey. I wish I had my DNA fused with a silverback. Then I could join the Marvel universe (SILVERBACK! THE MAN WITH APE STRENGTH!) and rob banks. If the gorilla has the power of over 15 men, you'll need an extra five or so to make sure it's held down. Then you need one more guy to strangle it while it's down to kill it. I have to think the first guy to reach the gorilla would get his head bashed in, so that's at least one casualty. But I think 21 guys would be able to do the trick. Remember: Steve Irwin only needed like, four other dudes to hold down a crocodile. Crocs are crazy strong. Not ape strong, but real fucking strong. No way you get it done with just three dudes. That would be a massacre. General Powell says the use of overwhelming force is required on Coco.

Damone:

Since birds are descendants of dinosaurs, how good would a T-Rex leg taste?

I dunno if that's actually true, given that, like you, everything I know about both dinosaurs and Chaos Theory I learned from "Jurassic Park." All I know is that, while T-Rex's may have something to do with birds, they're still fucking reptiles, and most chefs agree that reptiles taste like shit. Except komodo dragon. "THIS IS AN UGLY WORD, THIS ‘SCAM'!"

Canna:

What color is lemon lime gatorade? The vast majority of my friends insist its yellow. I, however, am positive that it is green. This has led to heated debates but I refuse to waver from my position.

Doesn't it depend on the lighting? Gatorade is like paint. Its color shifts with the light. I usually say the color of Gatorade is neon. Not neon yellow, or neon green. Just neon. I can't tell you how disappointed I am that Gatorade doesn't glow in the dark. It's the exact same color of the little glow in the dark star stickers I put on my kid's ceiling.

Brandon:

Do you ever study the menu online of the restaurant you're going to later? Whenever I'm excited for a meal at a new or nice place, I immediately pull up that menu and look it over like I'm searching for a hidden treasure map. I don't want to risk getting hurried by some cheery waiter and end up with a grilled chicken salad.

I study it intensely. Once we've picked a restaurant, I immediately hop online to look at the menu and drool over my potential future meal. Oooh, hamachi tartare. Fuck me, that sounds good. I plan my order and prepare myself for it hours in advance. I get myself in the proper state of mind to eat said food.

Mood is important to eating. Ever in the mood for a certain type of food – let's say Mexican – then you go to the restaurant and it's jammed, and then you decide to bail and go to another restaurant next door that is NOT Mexican? Fucks you up, doesn't it? You've mentally psyched yourself up for tacos. Now you get spaghetti. It's not a smooth transition.

I've also looked at online menus, prepared myself to order one thing, then gone to the restaurant only to find the menu has changed and the thing I wanted is no longer on the menu. But what happened to the grouper? WHERE DID IT GO, MAN?

I love looking at menus. If I walk by a restaurant and there's a menu posted outside, I always stop and peruse it. I also mock order in my head, even if I know full well I won't be dining there that night. I have issues with food.

Paul:

Is there a better feeling than beating advanced mode on Minesweeper? I did it once a few years back and celebrated like I'd simultaneously won the Super Bowl and banged Elle MacPherson. I subsequently retired from Minesweeper; had to go out on top.

It's such a bitch because there will be at least nine different times during the course of any advanced Minesweeper game where logic cannot narrow it down to less than two boxes that may have the mine. Thus, you are forced to make that horrible guess as to which box doesn't have the mine behind it. And it always happens right at the end. Click the right box, you beat it and feel like Jeremy Renner. Click the wrong box, smiley face goes frowny. FUCK.

One of my favorite things while playing Minesweeper was getting a really high numbered box. Once or twice, I stumbled on a box that had an 8. Eight fucking mines around it! Completely surrounded! NICE!

Tom M:

I once had a dream Tom Glavine was hunting my brother because he thought he possessed some rare jewel. Tom Glavine continually stalked me from a distance until one day, he came to my front door and stared at me with his cold, piercing eyes and without saying a word made me reveal my brothers whereabouts. Needless to say it was fucking terrifying and I have been convinced Tom Glavine is the devil ever since.

Well, he WAS a union rep.

Matt:

By far, my favorite piece of clothing for girls to wear is those stretchy-yoga pants. Holy shit. I go to school in New York when it's cold, and it's almost worth all the shitty baggy sweats and hoodies just to see those babies brought out. Those pants automatically improve any ass, and make good asses look fucking nuclear.

It's not just the pants themselves, but what most women do while wearing them. Any woman wearing skintight yoga pants is also the type to walk into the center of the stretching area and do a standing hamstring stretch. You may as well put a goddamn pole in the center of the room.

Kevin:

If you were buried in snot up to your neck, and someone threw a bucket of puke at your face, would you duck?

Is it my own snot? I assume not. If it's not my snot, then I don't duck. I only duck if it's a bucket of feces thrown at me.

I hope I don't get buried in snot.

Pat:

Alex:

Do you ever get paranoid over a possible terrorist attack when you go to a large sporting event? When I was an undergrad at Michigan, I attended every home game and always wondered what's stopping North Korea from sending a cruise missile to the 50-yard line. One missile, 100,000 people dead instantly. Seems highly efficient.

Well, at least it would finally get fans in Michigan Stadium out of their seats. ZING! For real, that crowd's about as lively as an AA meeting.

Of course I think about terrorist attacks anywhere I go, stadiums included. This is why I always make sure to fully envision the attack, so that I jinx it from actually happening. The only way that stadium is blowing up is if I DON'T first envision someone blowing it up. This way, I remove the terrorist's element of surprise. You see how that makes sense? Good.

Anytime I walk out of a grocery store, I envision it blowing up behind me in a sudden terrorist attack. NO! NOT GIANT! I JUST FIGURED OUT WHERE THE FISH SAUCE WAS!

I always wanted to be interviewed by news crews after something bad has happened and I witnessed it. "Oh my God! I was walking out and there was just this big fireball! I can't believe it! Will this air at 6PM or 11?"

Scott:

When my old high school friends and I all get together to party, we get gay a lot of the time. Not like actual gay, but saying pretty vulgar gay things, whipping our D's out, and the like. My wife obviously thinks we're weird, although she doesn't even know half the shit that really happens. I say we've been friends for almost 15 years now, so we're all extremely comfortable with each other. And I seem to think that other people do this as well. Thoughts?

Well, I went to prep school, so I'm not really a good arbiter of what constitutes getting gay with friends, since I am inherently gayer than most. We stuck our dicks in each other's ears. We had a thing called Naked Police, where everyone in the dorm ran naked into a freshman's room and just hung around and made him feel awkward. I made a point of sitting on the freshman's bed with my legs and cheeks spread as far wide as humanly possible.

Also, I'd drop my pants in the common room, and thrust my hips violently so my dick would slap against my belly and back down. So I'm not really one to declare you "too gay".

Ben:

Do you ever go through a slump in your dumping life? Some weeks I'll be the world's best crapper, where twice a day I leave glorious turds and stand up feeling like I lost 10 pounds. And then there are weeks like this week, where no matter how at ease I am or how long I stay there, I am never satisfied with the results. Any suggestions on how to break this slump?

Metamucil. I had to take a fiber supplement because it's supposed to help you lose weight and lower cholesterol, so now I take Metamucil thrice daily (I do the Pink Lemonade flavor, because it makes me feel like a KEWL KID). Anyway, since I started drinking that stuff, my shits have been pristine. I feel like I'm shitting out gold coins. It feels fantastic. Totally worth feeling like an old lump of shit for having Metamucil in your house.

I have long prided myself on being a good and prolific shitter. I dunno why that's such a point of pride. Like, I view constipation as a character flaw. If I drop trou, I am not leaving that bathroom until I see brown, no matter how long I have to stay. To get off the pot without have excreted anything makes me feel like a fucking failure. Hasn't been a problem since Metamucil arrived on the scene. I feel like I'm taking HGH for my asshole.

Sean:

I work for an engineering company that specializes in designing plumbing layouts for office buildings, schools etc. We have been recommending our customers use this new toilet model called "The Champion 4" for some time now. It has gotten such good reviews that my boss decided to see what all the fuss was about, and installed one in our office bathroom.

According to the American Standard website: "The Champion will move a mass 70% larger than the industry standard. It achieves the highest bulk removal rating of 1,000 grams and will even flush a bucket of golf balls! Which means you can flush with confidence and never worry about plunging a toilet again."

Hear that? Flush with CONFIDENCE. Well, they aren't kidding. We've had a Champion in our office now for about a year, and I don't think it has clogged once. I've taken some massive coffee induced shits in this thing, and it flushes every time without fail. Unbelievable.

Found this video of a kid dumping all sorts of random objects into a Champion 4....bottom line, you can't defeat the Champ. That's some fine American toilet-design right there.

HOLY SHIT. I want to flush a lobster down that thing.

Aaron:

So around 3am we leave and she agrees to come back to my house….by this point I'm beyond drunk. We get to my bedroom and start going at it. It hits me halfway through our make-out session that it's gonna be a struggle to get it up due to extreme whisky-dick, but I continue to dry hump while I remove her clothes. So we finally get to the point of no clothes, and she whispers the magic words, "Do you have a condom?"….So I scramble though the drawer in my nightstand and finally find one. I go to slide in missionary style….I start thrusting, and it my drunken haze, it feels like I'm inside her. Then the following conversation happens after about 30 seconds;

Her – "Are you gonna put it in?"

Me – "I am in."

Her – "No…you're not"

Me – "Yes I am"

Her – "Seriously….no you're not."

I glance down and notice that I'm not inside her….I had been humping the bedsheets between her legs. The mixture of condom lube, sweat, and extreme intoxication made me think it was her vag. By this point she's just disgusted, so she says we should stop….I tried pleading that I could do it, but to no avail. I passed out a short time later and never hooked up with her again.

"You got a shoehorn?"

Jason:

We're making out and I get her bra off. I touch her breast and it's the silkiest, smoothest mound of pleasure I've ever felt in my life. Her long blonde hair is flowing over her breasts and she's straddling me. At the time, I didn't have a lot of experience and I couldn't control myself. Her breast in my hand and gorgeous face caused me to cum prematurely. After I came, I kept making out with her hoping I could weather the storm and be ready again soon. We change positions and she sticks her hand down my boxers before I could stop her. I'll never forget the disgusted, disappointed look on her face. She laughed a little bit and I apologized under my breath.

She puts her shirt back on and then gets a call on her cell phone. She frantically tells me it's her boyfriend and I have to "get the fuck out or he will beat my ass." I already came in my pants and now I'm about to shit my pants. She apologizes and tries to tell me how they broke up, but it's complicated…blah, blah, blah. She gives me her phone number and tells me to call her.

I call her every 3 days for two weeks and she never calls me back. I try one more time and she answers. I ask if I can get a chance to redeem myself, but she tells me that it's not a good idea because she's pregnant with the guy who was going to beat my ass if he found me with her.

I told my friends the same story, but told them that we had mad, passionate sex and then her boyfriend called.

That's a fair reason to lie.

Nick:

We're completely naked and I'm pleasuring her with my hands, she's going completely crazy, when all of a sudden I hear a big bang. I look over and the girl in the heat of the moment smashed her head into the light switch next to her bed. She was out cold. What was I to do? Using my better judgment, I threw on my clothes on and got the hell out of there.

THAT is your better judgment? What's your worse judgment: shooting her?

Brian:

I'd wanted to hook up with Shannon for quite a while and one drunk evening during fall semester it seemed as though everything was going my way.

When we got to her place there was a note on her door from her buzzkill friend who'd just had an abortion that day. Shannon said she had to go talk to the girl but would be right back. In the mean time I could make myself at home with her refrigerator full of beer and her new CD player. CD's were still relatively rare back in '87 and this was literally the first time I had seen one outside of a high-end electronics store. So I settled in with some beers, some Elvis Costello, some English Beat, and the certain knowledge that I would be hooking up with Shannon. So happy. So tired.

The cruel light of day found me sprawled on Shannon's living room floor, surrounded by dead soldiers and CD cases. She said that when she got home she tried multiple times to wake me up, but I wouldn't budge, so she just went to bed. Not surprisingly, I never got another shot at her again.

Oof, the dreaded abortion cockblock.

Anonymous:

I go to Temple University and every spring we have a day called "spring fling". This is basically a day where there are tons of booths around campus selling things or hosting games. In other words everyone gets drunk as shit and makes a fool of themselves.

Anyway, I was texting the girl that I was hooking up with at the time and we decided we would meet up later that night. We literally never hung out unless we were hooking up, so it was implied that "meet up" meant "have sex".

So around 8 at night we go to my friend Luke's house where he's grilling burgers and boom, I get the text "hey come over"

So I make my way over to her place, but we end up going to my room and the hook up begins. I was, for lack of a better term, wasted and I ask her if I should get a condom and she agrees, yes it is time to have intercourse.

I attempt to put the condom on my penis and I quickly realize that putting on a condom when you can't see straight is maybe one of the most difficult tasks ever. Seriously, that should be an Olympic event, drink 15 beers, try to get hard, then try to put on a condom. If anyone can do the last two things in under 15 minutes, they deserve a medal and a parade. Well my attempts to put on said condom result in the condom only covering the top half of my dick, that's the only way I can describe it.

However, both of us agree, fuck it, we're gonna have sex regardless of the condom situation. instead of taking off the condom, we just decide to leave it on for whatever reason. Well we start effing and at one point I slip out and I look down, and the condom is just gone. And instead of just playing it cool and not saying anything I just freak out. She doesn't seem too worried about it, and I try to explain that the only place my penis went after I put on the condom, was her vagina. Therefore, the condom, is more than likely, in her vagina.

Long story short, she goes to the bathroom, comes out and goes, "I should leave". Clearly, she figured out where that condom was while she was in the bathroom. She never told me she found it, but you don't just leave mid sex unless some shit happened, such as finding a used condom in your vagina.

You missed a golden opportunity to pull that condom out of a top hat. MAGIC!

Brent:

Shortly after I got married, my wife and I decided we were gonna do something different. We had talked about anal sex, but she wasn't sure she could do it. So we decided that we would try anal beads first. If you don't know what anal beads are, they are just beads that come in different sizes that are on a string with a tab on the end that goes on your finger so that they don't get lost inside of the person. Anyway, she decides on the medium size beads and there are like 9 beads on the string. So, one night after a few drinks, we head upstairs and decide to try them out. I gently slip the first one in. She flinches a little. I slip a second one in, then a third, then a fourth. She's like, "Ok, ok, no more." I, of course slip one more in. "Fuck! No more! Take them out NOW!" Now, I didn't realize that I was supposed to take them out gently, and by the way she's freaking out, I figure I need to hurry, so I pull hard and they come out with a very loud scream. My wife is pissed. She turns to me and screams, "What the fuck do you think you doing, pull starting a fucking lawnmower!" We have not even spoke of anything anal-related in the 5 years since.

Can't imagine why.

Before we get down to business, I must note that the bottom of this post contains video of the money scene from "Blown Away," which is NSFW, but well worth you risking instant unemployment. Now, to your letters.

M:

Are guys really grossed out by menstruation? My uterine wall has produced some pretty amazing shit and my husband never wants to come check it out.

I pride myself on not being the squeamish type, but I want nothing to do with whatever comes out of a woman's body during the ENEMY WITHIN days. It's just… unnecessary. I can't speak for all of mankind on this, but I've yet to encounter a guy who says to his lady, "Wait! Don't throw out that tampon. Let's bust out the microscope and see what you got going on."

Now, I realize this is somewhat hypocritical. I'm completely hypocritical when it comes to male and female body functions. Like, I could spend all day ripping farts at home and laugh my ass off while my wife is covering her nose. But if SHE lets out a whopper? I act completely offended and grossed out. HOW COULD YOU DO THAT? YOU'RE A GIRL AND YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO SMELL LIKE ROSE WATER AND COTTON CANDY. Complete double standard. It's like boogers. I find my own boogers fascinating. But if someone tried to wipe one of their boogers on me, I might throw up. That's just how it is. Our own bodily quirks are interesting because they're our own. ("I SAW MY ASSHOLE IN THE MIRROR TODAY. IT BLEW MY MIND!") Someone else's… no thanks.

Jim:

Here's one for you: the armored truck fantasy. I'm so paranoid when I'm near one (especially if we're in a parking lot) I'll start assuming maybe these guys are on high alert and they might suspect me of trying to jack them. Do they think I will crash my car into the truck or the guy walking from the store? Could I really make a break for it and somehow take out the money collector as he's about to enter the truck, grab the loot and make a get away?

I have to think all armored car drivers are aware, at all times, that anyone who sees their truck will immediately, reflexively, envision jacking it. I know that's what I'm thinking. Ram the fucker with my car, back door flies open, BOOM! Giant sacks of money with dollar signs emblazoned on the front there for the taking. They shouldn't even use armored cars anymore. They should just use a shabby-looking Mayflower truck that's outfitted inside with state-of-the-art security equipment. Maybe that's what they already do. Maybe every armored car you see out there is just a very clever decoy set up by the Brinks corporation. COCKTEASES.

Dan C:

Is there anything worse than the first time you use a new stick of deodorant? It's like putting a sharp block of wood in your armpit and moving it around. Granted, I use the white solid stick, not the gel stuff. But anyhow, not only is the top of the stick sharp around the edge, you get tons and tons of flakes and excess crust that falls off, thus ruining your shirt. I should just mold the thing over the trash can first and then put it under my arm, but who am I kidding, I'm too lazy to do that.

I press the stick against my palm to get rid of the ridges around the rim, then I wipe my hand on my armpit just for the sordid thrill of it.

There are deodorants you can buy that aren't so horrible on the first swipe. Old Spice will fuck you on your initial use, but some deodorants come pre-rounded, and they are a delight. Like the reader who savored breaking the surface of a new peanut butter jar, there's an immense satisfaction to be had from taking off that little plastic shield on the new stick, marveling at the smooth top, and then jamming that shit right in your bagpipes. So, so wrong.

I remember when clear deodorants were all the rage and I first got one and you dialed it up, and the gel would squiggle out of the little grate at the top. Those sticks did NOTHING. If anything, they were perspirants. But dialing up that little Play Doh fun factory each morning was tremendous.

MW:

How delicious is a shamrock shake? I am going to the liquor store tonight and getting a bottle of Baileys and a bottle of Creme de Menthe and then stopping by my second home to get a Shamrock shake. McDonalds should just get a liquor license and make this process easier for us all.

I used to dip my fries in my McDonald's shakes on occasion. Is that wrong? Because it didn't taste wrong, I'll tell you that.

If you didn't know, by the way, Burger King is opening a restaurant in South Beach that serves booze. So you can get drunk AND shit yourself all in one convenient location.

Colin:

Whenever I'm in a busy public space and I see someone I know in the distance I play this game of pretend where I don't know said person is approaching. I do the check of the cell phone. Then you get maybe 20 yards away from the person and can't ignore them any longer but saying anything to them just gets drowned out and you awkwardly both say what. Then you finally stop and talk to each other causing a major traffic jam of pedestrians. Stop and chats should be illegal.

I also prolong dealing with the acquaintance as long as humanly possible, which I think is perfectly normal. If you saw them 20 yards away, screamed out their name, and ran to them like it was The Sound Of Music, that would be fucked up. There's a time and place for lengthy conversations, and anyone with a brain knows the middle of the grocery store, with your kids tugging at you, isn't fucking it. This happens in front of me all the time at the store, and I always want to break the chatters up by ramming them with my cart.

I try and wrap up stop and chats and surprise phone chats in a very quick manner. I just say, "Okay, well say hi to (whoever) for me. I AM NOW SIGNALING T YOU THAT I AM READY TO END THIS SHIT." Most people take that lead and wrap it up.

In college, if someone I knew was walking toward me on the paths, I'd keep my head down, then mouth HI to them as I walked by. I wouldn't even say the word out loud. I was an awkward teenager.

Monty:

I was about to cross the busy street I live on to get to the train, which is in the very wide median. There's a crosswalk spanning the two lanes, with blinking lights activated by two bollards that you pass through. I stepped into the crosswalk, and I see a city van, a parking ticket-writer van, barreling toward me in the left lane. The van slams on its brakes, starts to fishtail, and then swerves into the right lane where there were no cars, blows through the crosswalk and keeps going as if nothing had happened.

It missed me by no more than 2 feet and was going 35-40 mph, close enough that I felt the breeze from it. The thing that messed with me afterward is that I did nothing. I DID NOT MOVE. If that van hadn't corrected after the swerve, or if it had skidded sideways, I would have been pinned against a building by two overweight, chain-smoking piece of shit ticket writers. I've been thinking about this for days and have really beaten myself up for not jumping out of the way in heroic/acrobatic fashion.

Don't worry about that detail of the story. What's important here is that YOU ALMOST DIED, and you must breathlessly tell anyone you find how close you were to the Great Unknowable, and let them know this has shaken you to your core.

When I lived in New York, I stumbled out of a bar shitfaced one night at 2 or 3AM. I was walking down Park Ave. South when, from out of nowhere, a taxi careened off the road and crashed into a street lamp. If the street lamp hadn't been there to block the taxi, the taxi would have run me over. AND I WOULD HAVE DIED. And you can bet your ass I told everyone at the office the next day about my harrowing experience. YOU FOLKS ARE LUCKY TO SE ME TODAY. I WAS NEARLY ROADKILL. Oh, sure, I was shitfaced and in no shape to get out of the way, but that's beside the point. So don't bother with the part where you stand there like a retarded deer while this is unfolding all around you. Get the amount of concern that will make you feel loved and wanted.

Another near-death story: When I was three or something, I came across a pool in the winter that was uncovered. There were floating chunks of ice in the pool. Naturally, being three, I assumed if I jumped onto the ice, I could stand on the ice and surf around the pool. So I jumped. The ice immediately tipped and I slipped down into the water. My brother, who was with me, jumped and dragged me out.

To this DAY, I still bring it up on occasion. "Hey guys, remember when (my brother's name) saved me in the frozen pool? I COULD HAVE DIED. YOU SAVED MY LIFE! I AM HARRY BAILEY, MIRACLE CHILD."

All that said, I do occasionally get afraid some car or bus will go flying off the road and bash right into me. Ever have a bus coming down the street really fast? It always feels like it's about to jump the curb and take you right the fuck out. Unnerving. I remember when that dude from the Lions was killed in his own yard when a car jumped the curb and hit his ass. He was just in his yard, mowing his lawn, and BOOM! That completely freaks me the fuck out.

Kenny:

Did you ever have the feeling as a child that your parents actually kidnapped you at birth? While they might have done a decent job, they ultimately stole the awesome childhood you were meant to have as the son of FAO Shwartz?

I remember that, when I was a kid, I always hoped we had a rich uncle or cousin that we never knew about who showed up one day to tell us he was bequeathing us millions of dollars. Oh, and he was also CEO of Nintendo, so free Power Gloves for all. That rich uncle never showed up. The fucker.

Jason:

Have you ever been set up for something perfect and just nailed the moment? 7th grade English class, grading a spelling test, one girl asked out loud, "How do you spell RELIEF"? R-O-L-A-I-D-S, I yelled. I may have peaked right there.

There are few greater thrills than bringing down the house in the middle of a 6th to 8th grade class. I pulled it off once (at the expense of hundreds of failed attempts that ended with me being branded as the kid who tries to be funny but is not, which is not that far from how I'm perceived right this instant!). I felt like I had just won the fucking World Series. Everyone in class laughed, even the girls. I thought to myself, "THIS is the moment. I have finally turned it around and am now on my way to popularity! TALLY HO!" That never occurred.

The joke was this. 7th grade science class. The teacher is explaining how the male testicles work.

TEACHER: So the testicles are like the kidneys. If one shuts down or is removed, the other can pick up the slack.

ME: So my balls are kinda like one of those Dual Start Diehard batteries?

And BOOM! Laughter. That joke isn't even funny, but I didn't give a shit. I was KING OF THE WORLD.

E:

I sleep on my back so I like to have the covers at the end nice and loose creating a roomy little foot tent so there's no pressure on my feet, ankles or toes.

I like where you're going there.

The wife, on the other hand, likes to tuck everything the fuck in tantamount to shrink-wrapping the bottom half of the goddamn bed like it's a palate of cereal boxes at Costco.

QUEEN OF THE HARPIES!

She mostly sleeps on her belly, which naturally points her toes, thus causing no foot discomfort, and hates how the bed looks when the sheets are untucked. I hate having pressure on my feet when I sleep. I suspect we're both silently annoyed at the way the other sleeps, but since sleep is so important, we've managed to keep a "live and let live" policy in the face of our vague, mutual annoyance. Does this happen to you?

This does not happen to me, because the Mrs. and I are both back sleepers. I have a solution for you, though. One of the first things a doctor tells you when you have a shit back is to NEVER sleep on your stomach. Ever. Totally fucks up your shit. So tell that fine lass of yours that, if she treasures her posture, she needs to sleep on her back or side. IT'S FOR HER BENEFIT! And why does she care what the bed looks like when you're in it? You're fucking asleep. Town And Country aren't going to show up to photograph you.

I've said this before, but hotels are the fucking worst for toe confinement. They pack the sheets into the bed as tightly as humanly possible, so there's never adequate space for my feet when I first get in bed. Then I have to kick and thrash to get the sheets loose, then the whole sheet and blanket structure goes to shit. FIX YO SHEETS!

Chris:

While trying to fall asleep, I think about what would happen if I actually played the lottery and won. All the cool shit I'd buy, stuff for my parents, cars, houses- specific models, colors, locations. If I were to actually win the lottery all the surprise would be gone because I'd already have like the first 5 years planned. I've done it so many times I already have investment strategies in place.

I only do this when I buy the Mega Millions tickets. If the jackpot goes over $100 million, I always buy one ticket. Then I spend the next 20 hours thinking about all the things I'll buy. AND I make a point to give a little bit of the money to AIDS babies, because that makes me a good person if I give money to AIDS babies. I also have instructed my wife to tell NO ONE in the event that we win. Don't want any hangers on showing up and asking me for dough. So pathetic of them to look for a fucking handout.

I have a list of people who are okay to tell, and a list of people to whom I'd be willing to give our money to: mostly family, but IMMEDIATE FAMILY ONLY. I don't want cousin Bob knowing about this shit. He's not getting a fucking penny.

I also always do the tax calculations. "Okay, so we'll definitely take the lump sum payout, minus the taxes… We'll only have $42 million left! That's barely anything! We need to be judicious with this money!"

I have been known to buy Powerball tickets and deliberately misplace them around the house, so that I will forget about them. My theory: Everyone who has won the lottery has done so forgetting they even bought the ticket. It's always the first thing you hear in the interviews. So I make it a point to forget that I have bought the ticket. Increases my odds exponentially, I tell you. THIS IS MATH.

Paul:

How ballsy are the Mexican guys that stand outside of Home Depot waiting for some "under the table" work? I mean you'd think if it was a slow day for immigration officers, they'd just cruise over to the local Home Depot and grab as many of them as they could. I mean more power to 'em but how the hell do they not get in trouble? Is it just overlooked?

I assume it's overlooked on purpose. Who else is going to install my septic tank for five cents on the dollar?

I figure most people will either A) Do contract work on their house with cheap Mexicans, or B) Do no contract work if there are no cheap Mexicans around to do it. What's that? Pay full American wage for this new doorway? I THINK NOT! We can live without a front door for a few years, honey. That's how I approach home improvement, because fuck me if I'm gonna do any of that work myself.

(NOTE: Do not take this as an invitation to start seriously discussing immigration.)

HALFTIME!

Ian:

Have you ever had a big veiny one going and thought to yourself, "I have the biggest cock on planet Earth"? Even being at the national average I do this all the time.

YES. And it happens at the most random times. Just sitting around watching the game one afternoon, BOOM. Fucking concrete dildo right in my pants. I mean, rock hard. The kind of boner where you think to yourself, "Jesus, I'm NEVER getting harder than this. I wish a porn movie camera crew was around right now, BECAUSE I WOULD ROCK THAT SHOT." The kind of boner that pokes your bellybutton. It actually hurts, it's so solid. I never that superection at the RIGHT time. Just a plain old erection when I do my business. Annoying.

Andrew:

Have you ever tried to drive to a destination without ever coming to a complete stop? It's a great driving game, especially when your trip involves town/city driving and your lady doesn't know you're playing it. Amazingly, if you drive with this in mind, I've found you can make it hundreds of miles without ever feeling that small jolt of inertia where the car completes to a complete stop.

Hundreds of miles? Really? I mean, I've tried to pull it off, but inevitably I get to some stoplight where I don't leave enough distance between my car and the car in front of me, so even as I dribble along, I still get too close. It's like a little game of chicken. You see juuuust how close you can get without touching the fella, all the while staring up at the light, praying it will change in time.

Tim:

Have you ever wanted to randomly go A-hole co-worker on someone at a meeting? I thought about it today.

I've wanted to tell off any number of co-workers and bosses, and I've always had an evolving script in my head of the withering speech I would deliver to them. I even speak it aloud in the car on occasion. Do I ever end up delivering that speech? Nope.

Eva:

I love stealing from Walmart! My swipe of choice has been bite-sized candy! I could easily steal a $3 DVD of Daylight or travel size shampoos, but who really gets a thrill doing that!? I go for the 10-pack of Almond Joys! Carefully, I open the pack, steal about 6 bars and reseal the 10-pack! It is exciting and gives me the feeling that I am "sticking it to "The Man"". Sometimes, I get real ballsy and eat a couple bars while perusing the aisles! Have you ever stolen something? And I am not talking a lame piece of Bubble Yum from the 7-11!

OMG! I don't know! You're not actually sticking it to The Man when you do that! You're actually fucking over the poor asshole who gets paid ten cents a day to stock the shelves! The Man doesn't give a shit if you steal Tic Tacs! He's just happy to now have an excuse to fire Paco and call INS on him! So maybe you should stop!

I used to steal porn when I was 15, because stores wouldn't let me, you know, BUY it. So I did what I had to do. But opening up a pack of Almond Joys and swiping half the pack? That's fucked up. Sure, we all steal loose candy or the occasional car, BUT YOU WENT TOO FAR! LET'S ALL GIVE EVA A DISAPPROVING SCOWL.

Dan:

One of my favorite things about moving in with my girlfriend is being praised as the hero for the most mundane things. Last week I got a text saying that there was something wrong with the toilet. I come home, close the bathroom door to ensure that the ease of my success isn't too obvious, and...BOOM! I am the epitome of masculine ingenuity.

Three days later the toilet is surely forgotten, but I get home from work late and she tells me there is something wrong with the TV. We don't exactly pay full price for cable, so we're always afraid they will cut us off at any moment. Turns out, one of us hit the picture in picture button by accident when we turned off the TV and there's a big black box taking up half the screen. One push of a button and I'm back on top.

That's always a fun part of being married or having a girlfriend. "Step aside there, little hussy. THIS IS MAN'S WORK."

Last week, I was watching District 9 (fucking ruled) at home when I realized the TV was cutting off the alien subtitles on the bottom. Something was fucked up with the DVD player's picture ratio, so I looked up how to properly adjust it online, then changed the settings. So now I could see the subtitles and the DVD menu wasn't cut off anymore (I had kept the menu settings in standard def ratios by accident). So when my wife got home, I made SURE to tell her the entire saga of how I magically improved the DVD player by doing something I should have initially done three years ago. She was pleased, and I was pleased that she was pleased. I had a cookie as a way of rewarding myself.

I like doing very small tasks around the house, like drilling coat hooks into doors. It takes minimal effort, I can milk the clock, and when I am finished, I have an excuse to sit in the recliner for two hours with a beer in hand. That's a great time, the post-house project afterglow. LOOK AT WHAT I HAVE CONSTRUCTED.

SCR:

Whenever I'm driving in the car alone I always play out an announcers' call if I ever had a game winning score. As a hockey fan I love doing Doc Emerick or Bob Cole. It never gets old.

And why should it? Who doesn't dream of getting in the booth and showing Jon fucking Gruden how it's done?

I have gone from imagining myself as the lead play-by-play guy (childhood) to strictly imagining myself as the analyst. AND the studio analyst. "Rich, when I look at the Detroit Lions, I see a team that is pure SHIT."

In the car, I also have a habit of talking back to the sports radio hosts, even though it's clear that can't hear me. This is especially true if I stumble on Doc Walker's show here in DC, because Doc Walker is retarded. "Now I looove Antwn Randle El." YOU DO? ARE YOU FUCKING STUPID? HE SUCKS, YOU FUCKING IDIOT.

Enrico Palazzo:

How awesome are silencers? That sound it makes rules and I've never understood why anyone would want a gun without one. I have already asked the wife to get me one for Christmas next year. I must have a silencer. I would kill everyone that I even remotely did not like. It would be a glorious yet quiet bloodbath.

Agreed. I have no interest in starting some gun debate, but I do wonder how silencers could ever possibly be legal to sell on the open market.

ME: I'd like a silencer.

CLERK: Okay. What are you gonna do with it?

ME: Uh… play it like a recorder?

I'm sure they're useful for legal things like, I dunno, killing a deer without alerting other deer in the vicinity to the murder. If I were a hunter (No moral reason I'm not, I just never have had the occasion to do it. I'd totally hunt if asked to tag along), I would hunt strictly with a handgun with a silencer screwed on, and pretend every deer I killed was a fugitive terrorist. DEER ASSASSIN. Because why shoot a deer if you can't imagine it being a person while you kill it? PEW PEW PEW.

I'd also take my handgun and silencer, buy 100 teddy bears and a hundred pillows, and spend a whole day smothering the teddy bears with a pillow and shooting my gun through the pillow. So, so wrong. God, I hope that Mega Millions ticket comes through.

Stephen:

So, every time I come tearing down the stairs in an attempt to board an NYC subway car that has already arrived in the station, I face a quandary. Do I sprint to the car as fast as possible and try to jump on before the doors close, or do I casually walk over to the car, acting cool as shit, and just hope they don't close?

Pfft. Who does the latter? There's no choice. FUCKING BOOK IT. I am a complete nutjob in any subway station. If I'm coming down the stairs or escalator, and I hear that train coming, I will fucking plow over children and the elderly to make sure my fat ass is on that train. It doesn't matter f I don't have to be anywhere urgently. Ever wait on a subway platform for more than three minutes? It's like being in prison.

Martin:

Why do CBS and other networks mention a show's great ratings in their promotion? Take NCIS for example. Yes, CBS, I know that NCIS is TV's #1 rated show. It still doesn't mean I'll watch it, though. Is it used to just peer pressure me to watch it since a lot of people are watching it too?

That's pretty much exactly it. And it often works. It's the same reason Duracell says they're the number-one selling battery, or Ford says they have the best-selling truck. If everyone else is buying it or watching it, it must be good, right? It's not always the case, of course. Especially when it comes to "NCIS". I've watched that show. It's shit. I wanna punch that phony goth chick in the fucking nosering.

I still haven't seen "Avatar," not because I take some kind of perverse, Simmons-like pride in not having seen it (ZOMG! Such a nerrrd movie!). I just haven't had time to see it. But I know damn well it's the number one movie of all time, and it kills me I haven't seen it. EVERYBODY saw it. It's gotta be pretty cool, even if AJ hated it.

So yeah, peer pressure works.

Brian H:

The Internet let me down today. I paid a premium price for a TV stand from a website. It looks like the picture but it's so poorly constructed I fear it will collapse and crush the children. My only hope is their soft bodies would cushion the fall and save the TV.

No more Internet furniture. What other items should never be bought on the internet?

Most clothing items. Brides. Pets. Steroids. Death rays. Never buy a death ray online. It won't work. Trust me.

Adam:

There was one time we debated how much of our own feces we'd be willing to eat to get out of one week of work (I'd eat a fork full).

Really? A full fork full of your own shit? And you have to swallow? I don't think I'd risk it. I would only eat feces for money. And really good money. $10,000 isn't enough. It would have to be six figures.

Adam:

Was just wondering if you can put any scent into candle form to tantalize your nostrils, what would it be? I've always wanted one in pipe tobacco form, classy without the increased risk of cancer.

Oooh, or that apple tobacco they put in hookahs! That would be nice. Most scented candles are annoying. One time I went into a girl's apartment. She had a cinnamon bun candle burning. It smelled amazing, BUT THERE WERE NO GODDAMN CINNAMON BUNS. What a fucking tease. Scented candles are like torture. I want the actual item. Not its waxy essence.

Cimino:

So I was at a social gathering with some friends; sitting around, drinking heavily and watching a movie. I over-consumed, blacked out and do not remember the last 20 minutes. Yet somehow, this was acceptable with everyone, because it was a 10+ person event. Is this absurd to anyone but me? I know I'm only 24, but shouldn't I be at least mildly chastised for blacking out during a casual movie Friday?

"Do you drink until you black out?" is one of the questions they ask you to gauge if you need to go to AA. So cut down to get rid of that internal guilt. That always ruins drinking. I'm of the mind that blacking out is acceptable on special occasions. Cousin's wedding? BLACKOUT. Bachelor party? BLACKOUT. Tuesday? BLACKOUT. All acceptable.

Matt:

Ever notice the completely random nature of music at the gym? For my freshman year of college, I would always deal with it because I didn't get an iPod until sophomore year, then I recently lost my iPod and it was about three days or so before I got a new one. During the times that I went to the gym without an iPod, they'd usually play one god awful dance or R&B song after another, and then completely out of the blue comes "Your Love is Driving Me Crazy" by Sammy Hagar, or "Armageddon It" by Def Leppard. Then another hour of dance or R&B.

It's a real problem. My gym plays the same song by Squeeze every hour. Sometimes they play Spoon. Sometimes they play "House of Stone and Light". It makes no sense. And it's not an actual radio station. It's some cable or satellite station they have tuned in, like a JACK FM channel that went rogue.

The worst part, by far, are the emo cover songs. My gym plays the Ataris' version of "Boys of Summer" all the time, intermingled with some other dipshit emo band covering "Time After Time". This always happens while I'm in the locker room, so I have to hurry to get my headphones on and turn on the Black Keys to drown it out. But by then, it's too fucking late. I've heard enough of the song for it to get stuck in my head at a later date. It's horrendous. I hate you, gym music supervisor. I hope you pull a DJ AM.

They also play this song…

I know it's a song for kids, but holy shit that is the worst fucking song I've ever heard.

B:

Why in the hell do I have to walk over to the fridge every 20-30 minutes and open the doors just to check the status of things?? I have already looked 100 times and I know what is in there. Of course, there is the extremely rare occurrence when someone slips something into the fridge without my knowledge, which is pure elation. Last night, I had a friend over and didn't pay a lot of attention when my wife came in, therefore I did not notice she had brought home her Chinese leftovers from lunch. When I discovered this unexpected treasure in the fridge I mowed through that shit like a fat kid in a doughnut shop.

I check the fridge and cabinets all the time, just to see if I missed anything. Because I do miss things. My wife will be like, "Can you get me a lemon?" And I'll look, but I won't see it. So I tell her, then she checks, and it's sitting right fucking there.

So checking the fridge repeatedly, for me, is a demonstration in the faith I have in my own obliviousness. Maybe I didn't look hard enough. Maybe there's a whole smoked turkey in there I missed. Maybe I can make it appear in there WITH MY MIND POWERS. Usually though, I do it because I'm bored. I also check the fridge to see if there's something I can cook. And usually, we're just one ingredient shy of something awesome. I could make oatmeal raisin cookies right now, IF WE FUCKING HAD EGGS! GAHHHHHHH!!!!

Anon:

I watch a bukkake porn the other day. The guy that was next in line was awful close to the action and appeared to get hit with friendly fire from the guy in the front of the line. If that were you would you tough it out and stand there for another 45 seconds to a minute knowing full well some other guy just shot his load on you or would you lose your place in line to get a towel and wipe it off?

Well look, you can't participate in a bukkake video without expected SOME skeet ordnance getting to you.

That leads to another question: Is it normal practice for two guys who are tag teaming a chick to agree beforehand that there has to be to a safety bubble to avoid a catastrophic collision of cock?

Ask Daulerio.

Grant:

What is your favorite "before they were commonly known as this one guy" cameo from a film or TV show? Mine is the one in "True Romance" when you got to watch Patricia Arquette be savagely beaten and brutalized by a pre-Tony Soprano James Gandolfini. Hands down.

Don't forget Samuel L. Jackson in that SAME movie. "I eat the pussy, I eat the butt." That's a fucking blast. AND BRAD PITT AS FLOYD! The cast of that flick just grows in legend by the year. It's the most astonishing job by a casting director ever. Kudos to you, Billy Hopkins and Risa Garcia. Kudos.

Other than that, Chris Rock in "I'm Gonna Git You Sucka". ONE RIB.

I'm also partial to Alec Baldwin, pre-"Red October," playing scumbags in "Working Girl" and "Married to the Mob". Save me some soap, baby. Because I'm feeling EXTRA dirty tonight.

Dave:

Let's assume sexbots become common and affordable parts of our culture: Is it possible in any scenario to convince your average long term gf/wife to have a threesome with you and the sexbot?

No. Unless your wife is in a coma and you are designated her mouthpiece or something. But that would kind of ruin it.

William:

Based on your age, I assume you were a big fan of the Two Coreys classic Blown Away. Of course the best part of the film was finally seeing Nicole Eggert naked after years of watching her on "Charles in Charge." Isn't a nude scene with someone you never imagined you would see in a nude scene ten times better than when a chick gets naked in every movie?

I actually dated a girl once who claimed to be childhood friends with Eggert. I kept hoping there would come a day when she would introduce me to Eggert, we'd hit it off, and then I could engineer a diabolical switch over to having Eggert as my girlfriend. That, uh, never happened.

I also found Katie Holmes' nudity in "The Gift" completely thrilling. AND SHE TALKS DIRTY. I never would have thought she'd do that. That made my glands happy. There should be a term for an actress' first career nude scene. "Breaking the Shymen," or something like that. In the case of Eggert, it was awesome. Speaking of which… BAM!

I have a question for all the commenters out there: Would you star in a porn film if someone asked you? A real porn film that gets posted on the Internet and everywhere else. You get paid. Like say, two hundred bucks. And you get to have sex with a top tier porn star, like Lisa Ann or someone like that. It all sounds great, but would you really go through with it?

I've asked myself this question a lot. Obviously, I'm married now, so I'd never accept such an offer. But I always posit all sexual hypotheticals to the alternate dimension version of myself that is NOT married with kids. I think, back when I was 18 and a virgin, and back before all porn was on the web, I would have said yes. Immediately. And then I would have failed to get an erection on camera and spent the rest of my life chewing out my genitals.

But I wonder if I'd accept so quickly in the Internet age. Every guy DREAMS of starring in a porno, of course. But you see the fucking lechers and creeps who actually go through with it, and it's hard to want to join them. Plus, you gotta go through blood tests. And you have to take direction. People are staring at you. And you have to worry about people stumbling upon it somewhere down the line. Spouses. Siblings. Parents. Is it worth all that to spend five quality minutes on camera with Sylvia Saint?

Yeah, probably. Onto your letters.

Joe:

Have you ever been watching TV and an alarm clock goes off on screen with the exact same tone as the one you use at home? It's honestly the worst feeling I can get when watching a show. The trained response that I have from that always makes me depressed thinking that I have to leave my warm bed for work, even though its 8 o'clock at night.

Even worse is when the phone going off on the show sounds exactly like your own, which has happened to me a few times. Nothing makes you feel stupider. I'll even answer my phone before the character answers his. "Hello? Oh, it's the show. HAR HAR." Same with police and ambulance sirens. Wait, is that a real police siren, or is it going off on this special episode of "Top Chef Masters"? Ah. It's real! REAL FIRE SOMEWHERE! NICE!

My in-laws have a dog who goes apeshit any time he hears a doorbell ring. So any time we watch TV at their house and some fucking Domino's ad comes on, the dog springs up and starts barking like an asshole. And, since I can't kick the dog, I find myself irrationally angry at Domino's for not taking the dog's response into consideration. CATER TO ME, FUCKFACES.

I used to write a lot of radio ads. One time, I wrote an ad with a bunch of horns honking and car crashing sound effects, and my boss got pissed. "You can't put this shit in a radio ad. Drivers will get confused and freak out." It's just an unwritten rule of radio advertising. And thus, you rarely hear cars crashing in radio ads I was unaware of. THE MORE YOU KNOW…

Jay:

Assuming you could only use 5 condiments the rest of your life and they were stored in a fresh and never ending supply (one per finger on one of your hands), which condiments would you choose AND which finger would they be stored in?

The question becomes difficult because this would include breakfasts (maple syrup/honey), desserts (chocolate syrup) and of course any lunch/dinner meal you could think of. Salad dressings do not count on their own unless you use them as a dipping sauce/topper (blue cheese for wings). Anything hot does not count (marinara sauce), nor do liquefied versions of solids (melted queso cheese).

You seem to be a portly fellow, which 5 would you choose, in which finger (doesn't actually matter we have decided over many years and debates) and why?

Oh, I think which finger matters. You'd want the condiment you use most in your index finger. If you put ketchup in your ring finger, you'd spend the rest of your life annoyed you didn't assign it the index finger. So ketchup is a given. Soy sauce is second. I DROWN my food in that shit. My wife always looks at me with equal parts fear and consternation when she sees me abuse the Kikkoman. But I don't give a shit about hypertension. Soy sauce rules. That goes in the thumb. After that, it's BBQ sauce (pinky), sour cream (ring finger), and nuoc mam (middle), which is the fish sauce they give you in Vietnamese restaurants. God dammit, that is good shit. I don't think I need any sweet condiments in there. Whipped cream would be fun for the novelty, but I can just use vanilla ice cream instead of whipped cream for all whipped cream situations.

Tough to leave out A1, salsa, maple syrup, hoisin sauce, and guacamole. I could put those in my left hand. If I were Tony Stark, I would spend most of time engineering things like this.

UPDATE: FRANK'S! I FUCKING FORGOT FRANK'S AND HONEY MUSTARD! JUST FUCKING KILL ME NOW.

Banks:

What is your stance on a proper PB&J sammich? My brother does what would probably work out to a 3:1 ratio of jelly to peanut butter. I mean it just oozes jelly. I, on the other hand, rep the PB and usually put about two parts peanut butter to one part jelly. My dad really goes crazy. He'll get the peanut butter and jelly, mix them together in a bowl, and then put it on the bread as one spread.

Why would you dad do that when they already have Goober, the shit's that peanut butter and jelly sold in the same jar? Brian Regan does 15 minutes in his act on Goober, and with good reason.

Goober is delicious. My mom bought it when I was a kid, and I used to just eat with a spoon out of the jar. I regret nothing.

Anyway, whenever I make a PB&J sandwich, I use shitloads of both PB&J. No ratio is obeyed. Just a huge swath of Skippy, topped with a Majerus-sized blob of strawberry jam. After one bite, jelly jizzes all over the plate. The PB at the center is roughly half an inch thick. Just an appalling creation, but I've always followed the maxim that all sandwiches must be built as high and unstable as humanly possible. Large sandwiches give me an erection.

Justin:

What's your stance on using a basket when you go shopping? There are times when I know I only need a few things, but those things will be more than I can just hold in my hands comfortably. I always feel like a pussy when I use one of those baskets, but feel equally daft for using a cart in those circumstances.

I almost never use a basket anymore, because our list is too big and always contains some sort of liquid product, like a gallon of milk, that would make carrying the basket a pain in the ass. All it takes is one six-pack or milk container to make that thing weigh a thousand pounds. And it always slides to one side of the basket, throwing it completely off balance.

Baskets are good if you're just a single dude who's stoned and looking for chips, cookie dough, ice cream, and a tube of summer sausage. Or if you're shopping at some place like Trader Joe's and are only interested in buying cookies, nuts, and a bottle of wine for the night. Otherwise, the basket is worthless.

Those two tier carts some joints have are a happy medium. They're less cumbersome than a cart, and you don't have to carry them. I don't like carrying things. My only issue with them is that I often strike the bottom basket with my shins while I walk. That hurts like a cunt.

Kurt:

Why do rich people keep their booze in those crystal decanters? How do they know what's in them? Maybe they have a more discerning eye because all brown liquor looks the same to me.

If you were rich, why wouldn't you keep booze in a decanter? It looks classy, and you can pretend you're Don Draper about to close a million dollar account when you pour a drink. Some booze is in those decanters because it's actually been decanted, like port or something. And who cares if you can't tell which Scotch is which? Like you can go wrong.

Rod Beck's Bolero:

I've never vomited while fencing, nor have I ever witnessed a vomiting incident at our fencing club. However, wouldn't this be the absolute worst situation in which to vomit? Barfing inside your fencing mask would be awful because (1) the mask would serve as a strainer, separating the solid parts of the vomit from the liquid component, and (2) when you did take the mask off, you'd have to run your face right through the solid portions of your own vomit. I think about this every time I put my mask on.

This is why you shouldn't fence, Manny from "Modern Family". I don't think it would be all that horrible to barf during a sporting event. There's a mat beneath you to make for easy cleaning. There are any number of people at the meet to help clean up quickly so competition can resume. AND you're already sweaty from all that swordsmanship and quoting "The Princess Bride" as you fight. Think of Donovan McNabb in the Super Bowl. When he had to barf, he just let it out on the field and went back to his business. It's nice to have that kind of barfing freedom. No worries about getting it ALL in the toilet. No hunching over the toilet and taking that pre-sniff to help induce further nausea. No cleanup worries. Just barf and go. Sounds excellent to me.

A much worse barfing situation would be if you were at the altar, or if you were appearing on stage in a Tony-nominated play, or if you were hooking up with your stepsister. All far worse.

Matt:

RE: Southwest boarding. I always do the 24-hour before check-in online thing. I watch the clock tick down on my computer until the second it turns 24 hours before. I click, and I am sure I'm going to be gloating because I have an A10 or something. But…No. I have an A51. WTF? How is that possible!!?

I guess it could be worse – I could have a C ticket with the mouthbreathers.

Do you get to do the pre-board because you have young kids? How sweet is that?

Okay, you got A51 because all the Business Select people paid extra to have priority over you, regardless of when they check in. Those people are fuckers.

Let's just get into all the rituals surrounding flying Southwest right now. First off, I really like how Southwest does things, but there are any number of little things in the process you notice you fly them often enough.

• WAITING FOR THE PLANE TO ARRIVE. All Southwest planes are on a tight-as-shit schedule. One plane flies to Baltimore to Midway to Logan to Raleigh to Miami to LA to Islip to Dallas to Madagascar to Billings all in the same day. So that plane always arrives, what, 10-20 minutes before you're set to board? It's an agonizing wait for that plane, especially if it's running late. I'll see any number of planes taxi by the window and be like THERE IT IS! But nooooo, it always keeps going. FUCK. Because once the plane finally does arrive, you have to wait for all the assholes still on board to get the fuck off. And THAT takes forever, because it always seems like there are a million of them. And there are always five or six random people who finally exit the plan a good five minutes after everyone else has already gotten off. What took THOSE assholes so long? Sometimes, the plane arrives EARLY, and that is the greatest feeling in the fucking world.

• JOCKEYING FOR POSITION. It wasn't until a couple years ago that Southwest had the A, B, and C groups all board en masse, without specific line numbers. Those days were fucking anarchy. People would sit in the line on the floor. Everyone would flood the lines the second the plane landed. Thank God they number the lines now.

• FESTIVAL SEATING. Since you pick your own seat on Southwest, every asshole that goes on first takes an aisle seat and leaves the window and bitch seats empty. Then, everyone else has to crawl over the aisle fuckers to get to the remaining seats. And the flight attendant will always pipe up, "We have a full flight! Please move in!" Only no one ever does, and I don't blame them. You got on first. Why would you take a bitch seat? Fuck that. The upside to this is that, if you fly Southwest alone, you can still get a decent seat even if you're in the C group or something like that, because there's always an open bitch seat at the front of the plane that people have avoided.

• ROOKIES. There's always one dude with a C ticket who doesn't understand why the fuck he can't board with the A group. FIGURE IT OUT, SHITBOX.

• OLD PEOPLE AND PARENT SEATING. The only time I'm jealous of old people is when I fly Southwest, because those oldies always get to board first. It used to be that old fogies and parents with babies could board first, but now parents with babies have to board after the A group. The old fuckers get first crack at the plane to themselves now. Assholes. I wish I had a degenerative hip.

Last thing: I always feel victorious when I land and A) There are people still on the plane who need to remain seated because they're flying onto the next stop, B) I walk past all the poor bastards waiting at the gate to get on the plane I'm just getting off of. Ha ha! EAT IT, CHUBTARDS! You still got flying to do. I'm going home to a warm meal and hot shower! MWAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!

TLM:

Do astronauts jerk off?

I assume so. Oh, you mean in space? Well, according to some random person at Yahoo Answers:

I was reading Michael Collins' book Liftoff and one chapter was about Skylab (America's first space station in the 1970s) and on page 191, it says, "Before the Skylab flights, various medical concerns were expressed, including the possibility of the celibate crew getting infected prostate glands that could lead to urinary tract problems. One doctor advised regular masturbation, advice [astronaut] Joe [Kerwin[ ignored."

Joe Kerwin is soooooo completely full of shit. NOPE, NO MASTURBATION FOR ME! I'M TOO AMERICAN FOR THAT! What a fucking liar. You know damn well he blew a load into the space vac.

Eric:

I spent 2 years in prison…

Like I'll ever pass on an email that starts with THAT phrase.

…and had to learn very quickly to 1) completely remove one leg from any constraint while shitting 2) shit with no stall walls 3) be absolutely aware of everyone in area (6 thrones, 150 men). Total fucking nightmare the first week or so. The great part was absolutely nobody dared to piss standing up anywhere but urinals. Worst part: going to shit in middle of night (hoping for quiet) and finding "certain" inmates douching out their assholes with condiment bottles and water as if were no big deal. Amazing how quickly you adjust to such complete fucking madness.

Holy shit. I mean, HOLY FUCKING GOD. Imagine having to take a shit in prison with any number of rapists and anal smugglers around you. Your asshole is a goddamn commodity in those places. I don't know what I'd do. I don't think I'd shit for a month. And I'd imagine that hearing inmates douche out their asshole would be the BEST CASE scenario for sounds you don't want to hear while shitting in jail at night. "Oh, no one's being raped? Oh, thank God. Thank God it's just Willie giving himself a Venezuelan enema."

Miles:

Couldn't Amtrak make a boatload of money on late afternoon/evening trains if someone walked through the aisles selling beer/wine? I'd gladly pay $7 for a Bud Light delivered to my seat. Why force us to schlep to the cafe car every time? And people wonder why Amtrak loses millions every year.

PETER KING AGREES AND WANTS HIS AMSTEL DELIVERED TO THE QUIET CAR!

Fun fact about taking Amtrak: When I get out of my seat to get beer, I NEVER guess the correct direction to walk to get to the café car. I'll walk a solid two cars down before realizing the café car was the other way. Oh, sure. I COULD take note of where the café car is before I take my seat. But that would require me to be vigilant and intelligent. I am neither of those things.

I drink like a fish on those trains. If I'm traveling alone, I always blindly leave all my crap in my seat when I go to get a beer. I'm far too lazy to pack all my shit up to prevent risk of theft. One day, I'll get up to grab beer, come back, and my shit will be GONE.

Sometimes, I make a point of getting to the station a little early, so that I can get beer BEFORE I hop on the train. Union Station in DC has a liquor store. You can buy a sixer of tall boys before you board, and you don't have to go to the café car (until you run out of tall boys after 90 minutes, as I do). Getting drunk on a train is a fucking blast. LOOK AT HOW FAST THOSE TREES ARE MOVING! SO BLURRY!

One time, I traveled on Amtrak to New York for business and, due to some kind of miraculous clerical error, I was placed in first class on an Acela train. HOLY FUCK. They bring you free booze. They bring you a menu of all the things you get to eat, like smoked fish and all sort of cool rich person food. I nearly creamed my seat, I was so happy. On the way back to DC, I assumed I still got to ride in first class. The conductor turned me away and directed me back to the coach car with the rest of the hobos. I was fucking crushed.

Fat:

As a fellow fat man, how desperately will you scrape at the sides of a pan or bowl to ensure that every morsel finds it way into your greedy maw? I just spent at least three minutes trying to make sure every morsel of Annie's Mac N Cheese made their way from the pan into a bowl. There might have been whimpering and bead sweat involved.

Of course. I never let stray bits of macaroni or anything else go unclaimed. All food must be maximized. I also do this when baking cookies or cakes. Every single bit of the dough or batter must be used. I see my wife make cookies and the sides of the bowl are PAINTED with dough when she tosses it in the sink. LOOK AT ALL THAT PRECIOUS DOUGH YOU WASTED, LADY! GET THE PLASTIC SPATULA! GET ANOTHER SPATULA TO SCRAPE THE ORIGINAL SPATULA! NO DOUGH MUST GO UNUSED!

Now that I'm on a fucking diet, I'm even more desperate to get every last taste of whatever I'm eating. I lick plates clean now. Literally. If I have an egg, I'm licking the plate when I'm done. What? Leave stray yolk goo sitting on the plate? FUCK THAT. MINE MINE MINE.

HALFTIME!

Ben:

Do you ever imagine being interviewed? Fairly often I will find that my internal narration has taken the form of talking to a pretend interviewer. In this alternate/future universe, I have an impressive and successful career and the guy interviewing me is really interested in hearing very detailed account of my thoughts about my early jobs and colleagues. I'm also frequently an expert speaker on various conference panels. I'm incisive and thought-provoking but also funny and self-deprecating. Sometimes things get heated and I have to stand up to a charlatan with a spontaneous but devastating career-ending critique like the guy who took out Joe McCarthy at the army communism hearings.

Oh, yes. I have a "60 Minutes" profile of myself that is constantly being reworked in my head. Sometimes Morley interviews me. Sometimes Leslie does. Sometimes I get Scott Pelley, who's crazy underrated. Anyway, there are always the same elements: pictures of me as a fat kid, footage of me starring and directing my own Oscar-winning films, etc. Sometimes, when I'm not careful, I will literally start mouthing out the conversation, then stop myself when I realize what I'm doing. So, so gay.

Other times, 60 Minutes has brought me on to be the whistle blower in some top secret corporate conspiracy, ala Jeffrey Wigand. "This goes deeper than you could possibly fathom, Leslie." I blow that shit wide open. No one is going to sneak arsenic into Tyson chicken nuggets on MY watch.

When PTI first started, I always imagined being the subject of Five Good Minutes. I, uh, don't think that's going to happen anytime soon.

And NFL Films! Look, everyone dreams of being an NFL player or coach or some shit like that. And one of the more enjoyable parts of that dream is imagining that you are now retired and Steve Sabol is asking you about your glory days. Oh, we were tough. NO ONE FUCKED WITH US, STEVE. (cut to footage of you scoring TD)

Noam:

Was wondering your thoughts on pen-smoking (and I don't use that a metaphor for fellatio, I promise). Do only non-smokers do this? I sit at my desk from time to time (and I've been doing this since high school, at least) with a pen dangling out of my mouth while I type (when I need to type and write at the same time, sometimes) and every so often I mime taking a drag, take the pen out like a cigarette (or cigar) and exhale, the hold it in my finger (with Lolcats caption over my head saying "invisible ashtray").

Don't forget to use the old timey movie gangster voice when you do it. YEAH, SEE! IT'S COITAINS FOR YOU AND YOUR GANG, SEE! YEAHHHHHH, SEE!

Also fun to pretend you're Albert Finney in Miller's Crossing during the Danny Boy scene. The man's still an artist with the Thompson.

Michael:

What is the optimal Taco Bell order? I try to maximize the food while minimizing the cost. I usually stick with two crunchy beef tacos and two bean burritos. I ordered a new combo the other day with an extra taco on top of it (4 items total not including drink) and felt like a fat ass until I saw the kid behind me get five items. How much is too much at Taco Bell?

I am not qualified to answer this question because I am no longer in college and Taco Bell has since expanded the menu and dollar menu options. I used to get nothing but plain bean burritos from them when I went to Michigan, because they were cheap. But if you eat enough Taco Bell bean burritos, you soon grow to become nauseated by the sight of them. I know I did. I started imaging that I was eating cockroach paste while I was eating them, and that kind of ruined it. I assume that fear, by the way, is wholly justified.

I now order the same shit every time I hit the border: three chicken soft tacos. Every one of them gets at least three packets of sauce, so there's a giant sauce bukkake on the wrapper as I eat them. Mmmmm… sauce bukkake.

By the way, I think five items is pushing it at Taco Bell, especially if you have a burrito or a gordita or some shit in there. That'll come back to haunt you.

Scott:

How much change should you be expected to have in your pocket? Like, if you buy something at a store and it comes to $4.03, everybody loves it if you have 3 pennies or a nickel or something so you don't have to get a pocket full of coins back from the cashier. I bought something that came to $4.12 the other day and the lady said, "Do you have the twelve cents?' like everybody should carry around that many cents at all times. FUCK THAT. I'm saying less than .10 is appropriate.

But she's asking you that for YOUR benefit as well as hers. Fuck, whenever I pay for ANYTHING in cash, I'm digging in my pockets to see if there's change I can get the fuck rid of. I don't want 83 cents back in change. That's like having a fucking tap class in my pocket. I can't stand having more than one coin in my pocket. I have change OCD. I have to get rid of it when paying for something in cash.

And I always come up just short. If it's $4.43, I'll only have 35 cents in my pocket. If it's $1.09, I'll only have a nickel. It's horrible. Ever manage to pawn off four pennies to the cashier when something costs $3.29 or something with a 9 or 4 on the end? VICTORY.

Sean:

I live off a main roadway and love nothing more than to put the car in neutral and see if I can coast all the way home. Right now my record is a 1/4 of a mile. Unfortunately this makes me very hesitant to tap the brakes and I sometimes come careening around corners nearly missing animals and children. Am I the only one who does this?

I only do it on straightaways. On really steep hills, I feel like a kid riding a bike when I do that. But around corners? Yeah, that's probably a bad idea.

Doug:

I've always been a huge fan of fast food and a couple months ago I realized why. It's because fast food is a bunch of little presents that you buy for yourself. Think about it. They come in wrapping paper and little boxes. When I come back from McDonald's, I'll plop the bag on the table and I'll feel like Santa with his sack, "Have you been a good boy this year, Douglas? You have? Well, here's a sandwich and a box of nuggets. I wrapped them myself!" Eating fast food is like Christmas morning just with more grease and less yelling.

It's the equivalent of bringing porn home back when porn was something you had to buy or steal. Oh, that moment you open your fast food or your porn, and you're all alone, and IT'S ALL FOR YOU. That's a great feeling.

I get the same feeling when I buy something off the list at the grocery store. I have to buy a lot of boring shit: vegetables, milk, baby food, etc. But every trip or so, I'll spot something awesome, like Oreos on sale, or a new ice cream flavor, and I'll say FUCK IT I'M GETTING THAT. And then I spend the entire car ride home just primed to rape that cookie package once I get it in the kitchen.

Carl:

What's your favorite video game theme music for any game on any system? I'm gonna say Street Fight II for SNES is the best - Ken's stage having the best theme song.

I was always partial to the music from Super Mario 64, especially the water music:

So soothing when stoned. It is my Enya.

/collects all 120 power stars

Brian:

I recently found out that the D-league plays its all-star game in the same city as the NBA All-Star, which I find ridiculous. Personally I think that the D-League All Star game should be played in the same state, but in a much shittier city. Instead of playing the D-League game in Dallas, wouldn't it be more fun to put it in El Paso? It gives them something to shoot for.

It shouldn't even be played in a city. It should be played in a refugee camp, and the losing team should be forced to stay in that camp. Why even have a D-League All-Star game? Who's gonna put that on their resume? "Yeah, I was an All-Star… of the pissboy league."

Pete:

Snackbot. I defy you to name something your office needs more.

A scotchbot.

Rob:

So back in college, I noticed that some of my friends cut their food differently than I do. They would hold their knife in their right hand (if they were righties) and hold their fork in their left to steady the food. After they've cut their food, they simply pick up the food while their fork remains in their left hand. I, however, do the following: as a righty, I hold my fork with my left hand to steady the food, and cut with my right. But then, when I've cut my piece, I drop the knife, transfer the fork from my left hand to my right, and pick it up with my right. The length of that sentence should indicate how seemingly complicated this is, but it's what I've known my whole life, and whenever I've tried the other way, I wind up looking like an idiot. Thankfully I've met others like me, but I feel like we're a mentally enfeebled minority.

I also transfer. I wasn't quite sure that I did when I read this email because my eating motion is second nature to me, so I went and cut a banana just now to make sure that's what I do. And I do. And the reason I do this is because my mom taught me to do so. She said it was bad manners to keep the fork in your left hand, which sounds like a whole lotta bullshit to me. And she really drilled it in. I'd be eating my food, about to take a bite…

MOM: TRANSFER your fork.

ME: Can't I just enjoy my food, dammit?

MOM: Transfer!

And so now I do just that. I'd feel retarded doing otherwise. I have no issue with people who don't transfer, but I tell you this: Ever see those people who don't even bother to turn the fork around when they eat? Like, the tines are still pointing down when they take a bite? THAT'S WHITE TRASH EATIN'. The dipshit prep school snob in me rears his ugly head!

Tyson:

I used to eat Sun Chips religiously until they switched to the completely compostable bag. I have nothing against helping the earth, but holy hell these new bags are the loudest thing I've ever heard. Even their website acknowledges that the bags are louder than their old ones. What a horrible technology. If saving the earth comes at the expense of my whole house waking up at 2:00 AM because I'm stoned and have the munchies, then fuck the earth.

Not to mention the fact that, sometimes, you need to sneak chips so no one is looking, and a bag like that makes it fucking impossible. With Pringles, you can sneak in a dozen chips with someone else in the next room being none the wiser. But open a bag like that Sun Chips bag, and it's like a siren is going off. HEY EVERYONE, LOOK AT FATTY HERE BEING A FAT PERSON!

Old Gil:

So I'm getting to the point in my college career where I have to decide on a major. What subject can I major in that will be both easy and make me look good in the future? I don't want some bullshit Museum Studies degree, but at the same time I don't want to have to do any work. I also like money if that helps narrow things down. Any suggestions? And if you had to do it over, what would you have switched to?

I was an English major, and I recommend it. When you're an English major, all you really have to do is read novels (or, in my case, skim them), then talk about them and write a few papers on them. You don't have to memorize anything. You don't have to do any fucking field research. You don't have to work with a fucking lab partner or something horrible like that. There are no quizzes (unless your professor is a dick). You can bullshit your way through things. And it's a major no one sneers at. Some teachers assign papers instead of ever giving some fucking blue book test. A lot of professors let us choose which one we wanted (we always chose doing a paper). Plus, you can claim to have read any number of great books, and know enough about them to make it sound like you're a smart asshole. I don't think I'd want to major in anything else. Sociology majors are retards.

The ten most lucrative majors, according to the New York Times, are almost all engineering majors. That shit is hard. I dunno if it's worth it.

(NOTE: The only thing that SUCKED about being an English major was the English Theory course I had to take junior year. It was horrible. The professor made us think, and do real work. YES YOU, MR. BRYANT! OR SHOULD I SAY MR. TYRANT?!)

Dave:

As an American male, is it possible to NOT drive through massive water puddles on the sides of roads, while going an excessive speed? I say no.

I concur.

David:

What's your fucking beef with Duke? Is it the fact that they've been on TV more than any team since the world-wide leader started televising games? It is because they can at any time put 5 white guys on the court and compete? Is it because you hate Coach K and his constant screaming at the refs? Is it because Dickie V verbally blows them every chance he gets? Is it because you need a 1500 (old SAT system) to get in to Duke? Is it the floor slapping? Is it Krzyzewski-ville and the Cameron Crazies? Or is it simply because you're a UNC or Maryland fan? I'm obviously a Duke fan and can understand why some people don't like them, but what drives me nuts is when people hate Duke without a valid reason ie. Carolina grad, Twerp fan. Please support your hatred with validity or you'll be emailed this question daily until you do. Be scared.

Ooooh, I'm so scared. DUKE GUY IS GONNA RAPE ME!

How about that email? Is that email enough to justify hating your fucking guts? I say yes.

Dan:

My friend and I who both have baby daughters came up with this question after Christina Hendricks' New York cover. Let's say you're given the choice: your daughter can either become super, Joan-Holloway-hot, or have somewhat below average looks. You don't have a choice about your daughter's character or intelligence, though her looks will probably factor into that on some level. YOU make the call!

Hot. Who wants an ugly daughter? If you have a good-looking daughter, you get to reject and intimidate her numerous suitors. I'd much rather do that than explain to Ugly Betty why she can't get a prom date. "Honey, maybe if you didn't let your weight be such a problem…"

MANDATORY CAVEAT: THE WRITER LOVES HIS CHILDREN REGARDLESS OF THEIR FUTURE APPEARANCE AND PROMISES TO NEVER SELL THEM TO ANY RUSSIAN ARMS DEALER UNLESS THE PRICE IS REASONABLE AND ALL PAYMENTS RE MADE UP FRONT.

John:

Sometimes after taking a massive duke, I'll go to flush and notice a couple of bubbles wiggling their way free from my fresh deposit. I'm sure it's air pockets, but you never know. Are there tiny submarines living in my guts?

No. OR ARE THERE???!!!?!?!?!

The bubbles let you know that turd is fresh. Kind of appetizing if it weren't poop.

SWH:

If a girl talks to you first in an elevator when it's only the two of you (I got "I like your bag" recently), does that mean she wants you?

Yes. Push the STOP button and pin her against the wall. But if she says, "Hey, I love the Smiths too!", beware. That bitch be hot but crazy!

Eric:

To continue your idea about eating your own flesh...in high school I had a girlfriend who played soccer. She would get pretty gnarly blisters on her heel from her cleats, and she loved to pop the blisters, cut around the dead patches of skin, remove them and press them between the pages of a large book. After a week, she would remove said pieces of dried skin from the book and chew on them like someone might chew on a piece of beef jerky. And in case you were wondering, yeah, I still enjoyed making out with her.

Oh, that is fucking repulsive. Even I find that horrifying. You girls are WEIRD.

Quick note: This is the last Asshole Boss Digest. After this week, I'mma start doing more freeform posts around here. Now, onto the assholishness.

He didn't put her through a table?

Josh:

Back in the late 80's I worked in Ocean City, Maryland at a big family restaurant that served the tourists. It was a cool place to work, everyone was young and we partied a lot. But this one manager we had went crazy over the course of the summer. She told me she had been a registered nurse, and knowing what I know now if you're a registered nurse assistant managing a restaurant something must have been up. In the beginning of the summer, she was fairly normal and would talk to you, but by the end she screamed at everyone, cooks, waitresses, busboys, and customers. Since it was a beach town, she would always walk around saying, "I can't wait for you guys to leave," to the summer help.

She had a rule that if there wasn't a waitress on duty in a section she wouldn't seat people in the section. She'd make them wait in line. Which really pissed people off because they'd be standing there waiting and there was all these empty tables that the customers could see. If they did sit down she'd make them move.

One day Captain Lou Albano, his family, and one of the Wild Samoans come into the place. He's on vacation but he still has the rubber bands in his face and the Samoan is still huge and has the crazy hair. The whole restaurant is buzzing because this is a big deal, it wasn't too long after the Cyndi Lauper video, and Wrestle Mania had just taken place. She makes him stand in line. The other busboys and I can't believe it, no one whether he'll trash the place. At this point wrestling was still real. After about 5 minutes he calls "crazy manager" over she gives him shit, so Captain Lou leaves. She follows him out the door yelling "See Ya" and waving at him. It was the worst I've seen a customer treated, let alone a famous one, who was very large and acted insane for a living.

That was the highlight of the summer. That and getting glared at by Lefty Driesell.

Oh, this is golden

Anonymous:

At the time I was 18 years old, in college, and held two jobs. The first was Lowe's, the second was at a small sports store in the same strip mall. My boss (manager of the store) was a guy in his late 20's named Evan. On my second day of work at the sports store, it is just me and him working. The shoes we sold were shitty, and about 2 years behind stores like Foot Locker. On the day in question, we get a shipment that Evan is PUMPED about. Apparently he had won the contract to supply cheer uniforms for three local high schools and junior highs. This will probably triple the stores normally terrible monthly sales. We helped the UPS guy unload around 15 or 20 large boxes full of uniforms.

As we are cutting open the boxes I start noticing that Evan is sweating and muttering softly to himself. I actually watched as the sweat marks appeared on his shirt. Every single uniform was red, white, and very small. There are no teams that wear red and white in our area. Apparently the company he ordered from royally fucked up. Evan calls the company, and they inform him that they wont be able to ship the correct uniforms for 2 weeks. The schools need the uniforms in 4 days.

Evan then proceeds to lose his shit. Literally. He throws the phone across the store, and I start to get the aroma of something god-awful. He is knocking over racks of clothes in a rage and his face is a strange shade of purple/red.

I look down, and in the midst of his rage, he has shit all over himself. He is wearing khaki pants and diarrhea is running down his legs and dripping onto the floor. He paces around the store spreading droplets of shit everywhere he walks. He then walks over to the cash register area and is in full fucking meltdown mode. He assumes a catcher's stance (almost like a standing fetal postion) and I can now actually hear his bowels coming undone. Whatever he had been trying to hold back all comes out at once.

After shitting all over himself and the store for probably 2 or 3 minutes, I guess it dawns on him what has happened. He sprints to the back room and into the bathroom. I haven't moved from the place I have been standing during the entire ordeal. I stay behind the cash register for about 15 minutes waiting on him to come back, but instead he calls the store and tells me to clean up the "mess" in the store, and that he left through the back entrance and is heading home to change.

I put the closed sign on the door and start picking up all of the racks of merchandise he knocked over, being careful to avoid the shit drops. I decide that he can clean up his own shit stains and that I will just keep the closed sign up until everything is done. It is about 3 p.m. on a Friday, and we don't close until 10.

Here is the asshole part of the story. Evan never comes back. He leaves me, on my second day of work, standing in a store full of mismatched cheerleading uniforms and his shit all over the place. I have no idea what to do. I looked for numbers for someone to call, but could find nothing. I then just hang out all night in the back room watching TV and waiting for Evan to show up. At closing time I realize I don't have a key. I eventually have to call the cops, because there are no other options, other than just going home and leaving the store unlocked.

Being my second day, I haven't had a chance to get a shirt with the store logo on it. I'm afraid the cops are going to show up and assume I'm a crazy asshole who ripped open boxes of cheer uniforms and then crapped all over the place. Thankfully they just make me do a walk through of the store with them, and I explain why there is shit all over the store and my manager is missing. After that experience I decided that I really didn't need a second job after all, and didn't show up for Day 3. About 2 months later the store is closed and replaced by a Subway. I haven't eaten there yet.

"YOU GOT A NERVE TO BE ASSSSSSKING A FAVOR…"

Matt:

About three months into my time there, my boss told me to go to the very back of our stockroom, where we kept the 50 pound bags of livestock feed, and clean things up. This didn't seem like a big deal until she said, "You might want to wear some rubber gloves too. About a year ago we had a rat problem in there, so we put down rat poison on the floors and shelves. Don't worry—there shouldn't be any dead rats in there, but I need you to make sure every bit of the poison is cleaned up." I looked at her in shock. Then she said, "I'd help you out, but I had meningitis a few years ago." "What does that have to do with it?" I asked. My boss said that since she doesn't take medicine, she had to "pray her way through it," and the meningitis had weakened her immune system permanently. "I can handle unused rat poison," she said, "but if I touch it after it's been used, I'll probably die." I had no clue what she meant by the word "used," and I was so blown away by the stupidity of not taking medicine to treat meningitis that I didn't ask.

When I went back to the stockroom, I immediately understood what she meant by "used." Apparently, rats don't digest the poison once they swallow it—they vomit it up in large clumps, then scurry off to die. There were chunks of bright purple poison everywhere, especially in the places where only rats could go. Corners, baseboards, the one-inch space between a crate and a the wall: regurgitated rat poison. Looking back, I should have quit right then, but the tax free and higher than minimum wage money was too appealing. Instead, I got down on my hands and knees and scrubbed poison garnished with bubonic plague off the floor.

My GMC Yukon's gotta breathe

Pat:

This is a trivial thing yet it bothers me. Our parking spot at the office has around 60 spots. It usually doesn't fill up everyday and leaves around 10-15 spots open. But because of this snow those spots are gone. Yet my boss decides to do his usual routine of parking in 2 or 3 spots. He's the first one here every morning and decides the lines don't apply to him. Those spots are necessary now and people that come in later need to use them. He isn't even the head honcho here, he's just a department head.

Well, we clearly can't finish this series without a racist boss

Julien:

As a kid I worked a lot of construction in order to make money for college expenses (books, extra classes, meal plans, drinking money, etc.). The thing people don't realize is that construction sites are pretty much racist white guys and Mexicans. I'm a black guy working for my step-uncle's plumbing company (he's white and his brother married my mother), so I'm the exception to that rule.

I apprenticed with this grizzled old guy named Bill who was just as much of an asshole as he was grizzled and old. He constantly made fun of the Mexican guys and their accents, while he drank and smoked on the job and made constant mistakes. He would also try and take jabs at my race and try to blame his mistakes on me. Two stories come to mind of how he shit on me and I got him back.

One time while finishing off some plumbing under an under construction house, he claimed I got the hot water and cold water confused. I called him on his bullshit and knew, even before signing up for this job just from observation, that cold is on the right and hot is on the left. He doubted me and switched it. After telling me to "get your black ass upstairs to see your mistake", Lo' and behold he switched my correct work to his mistake. I came under and told him about the new mistake and he threw his toolbox and a map gas torch at me and told me to fix it. Telling me how he knows what he's talking about because he's licensed and bonded by the company and I'm a driver with a toolbelt (remember the drinking part? Two DUIs and he can't drive the company vehicle anymore)

I told him to apologize for being a jackass for no reason and he told me to shut my mouth up and crawled up whispering a few colorful words. I grabbed him by the ankle and pulled him back and asked him again to apologize. He refused and so, using my high school wrestling experience, put him in a headlock and told him to apologize nicely for saying some really harsh stuff. Fearing getting his ass kicked by someone more than half his age, he finally did, I let him go, and fixed his mistake.

Fast forward two days later and we're called out to this grandmotherly type woman's house in nowhere Virginia because her toilet's backed up. We go under the house and find the problem, a cast iron pipe that's backgraded (everything needs to move downhill, not uphill, so backgrading is a bad problem in plumbing) and I assume, clogged with everything this woman put out of her body for the past week.

Bill tells me to go under, knock out the section of pipe that sounds full, so we can replace it and correct the grading. I told him I couldn't do it, I'm not licensed and bonded, I'm just a driver with a toolbelt and he's the one who's supposed to do actual repairs because I make so many mistakes.

So Bill crawls under the house with a 3 pound hammer to break off the clogged piece. After a few minutes of heavy hammering I hear a scream from a horror movie, some scurrying around, and Bill comes out covered in everything that has come out of that woman's ass, swearing up and down, and calling me every name in the book.

The best part is that he had to finish up that job covered in filth. The ride back to the shop was hellish in the Virginia summer, and we had to bleach the passenger seat of the company vehicle, but it really was worth it to see him shit on.

The next 2 years I spent at that company working with him, we got along better, but little things would come and go. He stole things from people's houses and blamed me, he would drink on the job constantly and pass out in the vehicle with the AC on full blast for 2 hours while I fixed his mistakes. A few times we grabbed a beer after work and he would constantly hit on girls only a year or two older than his daughter, using me as bait. I learned a lot about home construction and plumbing during those years, but I really learned about people and how to deal with someone's assholish ways.

We shall never surrender!

Hank Scorpio:

Her best moment was, in a fit of rage a couple years ago, screaming that the CEO of our competition was like Hitler and that our organization was like Churchill. Sadly our Jewish CEO was not around to hear this tirade.

Framed with porn!

Mark:

I had just graduated from high school and was working as intern at the law firm of a neighbor and friend of my father, since the law was where I envisioned my employment future and I wanted to pad the ol' resume. This was a smallish firm of 4 principals partners, 10 associates, 25 or so paralegals and assorted interns and gofers like me. Naturally, I was assigned to work with my dad's friend in his "Band of Bitches" of interns and paralegals like he calls them.

Outside of the office this guy seemed like the nicest guy in the world. He coached little league, was president of our temple, let you use his snow blower write you a letter of recommendation etc. In the office he transformed into some sort of Michael Scott/Donatella Versace from SNL hybrid. He treated everybody like crap. He would comment on how much or how little skin the female interns showed and what he would do to them if they stayed late. God forbid you took too long getting his coffee he would ream you out in front front of the whole office. Pretty much he was a huge dick.

One day I was in the office before he got there while his office was being cleaned by the middle aged Eastern European woman from the building's service. She runs out of his office and asks for my help. I follow her to his desk and on the screen is some hardcore fucking. I try to stop it but it's playing a loop of clips that might make Cockeye Jones blush. I try to close the window but these scenes just keep on popping up and playing. I figure he must have downloaded a virus.

So I call my dad's friend on his cell and let him know of the situation. He tells me to see if I can delete some of the files from his computer tight and he will be there in a few minutes. I sit down in his chair and try to delete some of the files. Next minute one of the IT guys and asks me what the hell am I doing. I try to explain the situation before he calls over one of the other partners I am taken into the conference room. My dad's friend then arrived and said he will take care of the situation. He then calls my father and gives him the whole "Bernie, I don't know how to say this but I think Mark might have a problem" talk. I was fired and had to have an awkward conversation about respecting women from my parents. Of course every time I tried to explain what had happened I got the "I wouldn't believe that about Jim". Dad's friend told me he wouldn't tell anybody and thanked me for taking one for the team. What an asshole. On a positive note he did write a nice letter for my law school applications.

In the very near future, we're going to be doing a bit of a theme week here at Deadspin. That's right. IT'S GREEN WEEK! No, no. Just kidding. We'd never do that shit to you.

No, we're going to have a Spring Break week. As such, I have been charged with collecting every Spring Break horror story you good folks can muster. So send them my way. They can be hookup failures, poop stories, times you got your ass kicked, anything. All I care about is that they concern you going on Spring Break, and that you suffer some sort of pain and/or humiliation. Don't send me some shit about how you banged a fat girl. I don't care. Don't send me some email about how you went down on a girl who was on her menzies. Again, I don't care. I get a dozen of those every week. WAHHH HER VAG SMELLED BAD! Suck it up. Don't be a fucking baby.

Best stories will be posted on the site. So make them count. Now, to the hookupFAILs…

Jack:

I am at the Boot on a Friday night one spring hanging out with some friends. Anyway, the time for whatever we were waiting for was fast approaching and it was time to leave. I gathered near the door with my friends while we waited for a few stragglers to say goodbye to whoever they needed to say goodbye to. I stood there zoned out in a drunken haze waiting for the signal to leave.

Next thing I know, I am being dragged down Broadway by my entry wristband by a 5 foot tall South American chick. (I am at least a foot taller). Confused, I try to introduce myself and she cuts me off by saying, "I don't give a shit what your name is." We get to her house (also on Broadway) and she stands on her entry stairs and starts molesting me. So far, so good. We make it into her living room in a frenzy of torn clothing and sloppy make out. As our clothes come off, she jumps on me and wraps her legs around my waist. I trip over something on the floor and fall through her glass coffee table cutting my back and chest in several places. She just goes, "Oh fuck, my roommate is going to be pissed. Oh well, I hate that bitch anyway."

Then she drags me into her room and sex starts happening. About 3 minutes into it, we hear angry voices yelling, "New Orleans Police-drop your weapons!"

At this point the cuts from the table are bleeding pretty bad. I take myself out of her and throw on her pink robe. I walk out to two very angry NOPD officers responding to a domestic dispute reported by the downstairs neighbor when the coffee table shattered. After 20 minutes of her convincing the cops that: 1) I did not break in to rape her and 2) She lives here, the police leave. Then we resume the sex. About 15 minutes later, we are making sweet tender love with her bent over her dresser and me standing behind when her roommate kicks her door open. The doorknob gives me a hip stinger and a dead leg all at once. Her roommate starts berating me and her about how we broke the coffee table. Then her roommate AND her decide it is all my fault and basically start throwing things at me.

At this point, I am very confused and I retreat to the bathroom to clean my wounds. Then the girl comes in and says she is sorry, but wanted to blame me in front of her roommate so her roommate wouldn't be mad at her. She then tells me to leave, but just stay on the porch for a minute and she will let me back in. She promises to let me do whatever I want to her. I find my pants and walk out and apologize to her roommate, then I offer to replace the table because "my dad owns a furniture factory, I swear." I grab a pen and a piece of paper and write a fake phone number and write Jason, for a free table. I then leave. I never saw either of those classy ladies again. (Although I am not sure I would recognize them if I did.)

Jack's last name? Nordberg.

Dan:

I had been in DC a few months for graduate school and the school sometimes sponsored mixers at bars. At one such event in Adams Morgan, I proceeded to get totally loaded with some of my classmates. Anyway, by the time the lights came on at the bar, the only three left were me, a girl from my school and her roommate.

I suggested we continue drinking at their apartment, they happily agreed. I thought (stupidly) that I had a chance with at least one of them, if not both. So we get back to their place and after a drink or two, my classmate announces she is tired and leaves me with the roommate. Almost immediately, we start going at it. I suggest we move to the bedroom, she agrees (still looks pretty good right?). We get there and she hits me with this zinger, "let's keep it above the waist tonight." FAIL. I tried every line to convince her, to no avail. So I just gave up and waited for her to fall asleep so I could sneak out, sleep in my own bed and spare the humiliation of waking up next to her. I figured at least with this way I would avoid too much embarrassment at school.

Alas, it was not to be.

I quietly put my clothes back on and tiptoed out of her room, through the kitchen and out the door. I closed it behind me and heard it lock shut with a loud click. I then turned to leave and was quite surprised to find myself in a 3ftx3ft steel door cage, the kind that is used to prevent the scum of DC from breaking down your door and killing you in your sleep. The biggest problem with this situation was that the cage needed A KEY to open. I did not have said key. OK, I figured I'd just call my friend and get the humiliation over with. But that didn't work either because she was passed out in her room and her cell phone could be seen ringing on the kitchen table.

Next step, attempt to drunkenly kick in door. This also failed because I could barely land a solid kick with so little room to maneuver and the door was brand new and locked tight. But I gave it a good effort and beat that door to shit (without kicking it all the way it) making so much noise that the landlord came down in his skivvies with a baseball bat ready to beat down the "burglar." He took pity on me, let me out and I slunked home.

The next day I get a call from my classmate, "You want to tell me why we are stuck in our apartment?"

In the end, I did not have sex, I had to pay almost $300 to fix the door, and had to see the roommate everyday at school for the rest of the year.

"Could everyone stop getting shot?!"

Matt:

We had a Christmas party at our old apartment, and it was great, had way more booze to know what to do with and I was celebrating a one year anniversary with my girlfriend. Anyway, to celebrate, we all had shots of Jim Beam and Jack Daniels. I realize that I am drinking fast, and I feel lighter, as liquor is known to do.

The night continues, and I am having a great time, everyone is drinking, dancing, eating all my food, etc. Great night. I am drunk at this point. My girlfriend is too. At some point in the night, she comes over and says: "I want to have sex." We go to my bedroom. We're both having fun, sloppy sex with our Santa hats on, and it's actually going great. I feel I can actually finish. Tonight will succeed as a great night!

But then, after a little up and down, she says, "Oh God, I have to pee." I know I might be screwed if she leaves the room. I will lose the boner. But she understands and does the amazing thing and says, "Wait! Here! Watch some porn! I'll be right back!" She puts on a sweet little two on one on the YouPorn, it's wonderful. She leaves. This goes on for a while, and it is working.

DOOR FLIES OPEN. I am not startled because it's obviously her.

It ISN'T. It's a guy named, let's say, Chucky, and he's hammered looking for the bathroom. He says, "Whoa!" obviously, but he's real drunk and doesn't leave. He is standing in the doorway watching a naked man masturbating to porn in a Santa Hat alone at a Christmas party. I can only imagine what the man was thinking.

I tell him to fuck off politely. He closes the door. I am so fucking startled and embarrassed I immediately lose all sexual desire at all. The girlfriend comes back.

Upon seeing I am no longer ready to go, she in drunk mode, STARTS TO CRY. "Why don't you love me? Why don't you want to have sex with me?! Why are you so drunk!?"

I explain to her the story and she eventually calms down, but the sexual moment was destroyed. KEEP YOUR DOORS LOCKED BOYS.

The Santa Hat really makes the story.

Anonymous:

I grew up a Mormon in Utah and, as such, had the evils of masturbation hammered into me from an early age. Despite leaving the church while in high school, I never really got into masturbating (i.e. did not do it throughout my final two years of high school or college).

See the problem with never jacking it is that you suffer from chronic wet dreams. This problem is exacerbated when you've had any sort of intimate contact with a female, such as a thirty-minute handjob. After telling the girl, "Sorry but I just don't think it's going to happen for me tonight,"I rolled over and went to sleep in her bed. I woke up 4 hours later to what might have been three gallons of sleep sperm, spread generously all over her mattress, sheets, and comforter.

At this point, I am in panic mode. If I get up, she will wake up and discover that her bed is coated in my would-be offspring. Suddenly a genius idea strikes me: "Sleep semen is liquid, heat dries liquids, friction creates heat…I just need to hump all the sperm spots to create enough friction to evaporate that shit."

Well, I humped the hell out of several areas on the mattress, I pinned down a portion of the sheets and humped them too, all that was left was the comforter. I should probably mention that I wasn't trying to eliminate all traces of semen, just make it so the bed didn't seem like it had been dipped in clear caramel. Anyway, almost immediately after I trapped a piece of the comforter between my legs the girl woke up and asked me what I was doing. I told her that I couldn't sleep and that I should probably take a shower to see if it relaxes me. With that, I bolted for the door, headed back to my room (which was next door), and never looked back which is a euphemism for I went on to see this girl almost every day for the remainder of the school year with the shameful knowledge (she had told others) she knew what I had done.

That's what you get for being a Mormon.

Michael:

I reach for a package of free condoms I got from the Peer Health Educators on campus - only to find that those FUCKERS STAPLED THEIR CARD TO EVERY CONDOM PACKAGE! All 20 were presumably punctured, thus killing any chance I had to get laid that night.

Finally, a correction from a doctor with regards to torn frenulums.

Jason:

I submit my qualifications- board certified urologist with completion of a one year fellowship in men's sexual health. I'm the director for the center for human sexuality at a major university hospital. The vast majority of the surgeries I do involve the penis. I believe this qualifies me as somewhat of an expert.

The frenulum of the penis is something that is difficult to describe to someone who is circumcised. When a circumcision is done, the frenulum is usually divided/detached. The frenulum is simply the bridge of skin from the underside of the penis just proximal to the glans (head) that attaches to the foreskin. As I am sure you know, this area has some of the highest concentration of nerve endings in the penis and is very sensitive. In fact, many men can reach climax just by placing a vibrator on this area. The problem I have with the reader's story is that he says that he bled profusely because he had an erection. The truth is that the amount of blood in this area remains relatively constant regardless of erection. The areteries for erection are deep inside the penis. There is, however, a frenular artery that, if torn, will bleed like crazy.

As another FYI, a "frenulum" is simply an attachment of one organ/tissue to another. Another example of a frenulum in your body is from the tongue to the floor of your mouth. Coincidentally, when I was in college, I was kissing this girl (with tongue!) and she was really going at it with aggression and somehow my tongue got caught and I slightly tore this area. My mouth instantly filled with blood and, obviously, so did hers. It was like I was vomiting blood into her mouth. That was rad.

P.S. I'm happy to offer my services as a consultant for all urological/dick questions that may come up in the mailbag or otherwise.

We may take you up on that, good sir.

The Oscars are on Sunday, which means it's time for me to spend the week processing any number of scenarios in which I am involved in the ceremony. I watch the stupid Oscars every year, and they grow more insufferable on an annual basis. Yet that will never stop me from daydreaming of the day I get to A) win an Oscar and give a speech, B) host the Oscars and deliver a scathing monologue, C) present an Oscar (yep, I even dream of presenting the things, in which I add my own little flair to the announcement, and make a point of saying AND THE WINNER IS in an act of cool defiance), and D) attend any number of post-Oscar shindigs, in which other celebrities ask to touch my Oscar and indentured female servants feed me champagne and caviar while I do blow off in the VVVVVIP area.

I have an Oscar speech in my head that I adjust on a yearly basis. I will not print it here, because it is beyond retarded. I also have mental Oscar speeches prepared should I win multiple Oscars on the same night, and I always do ("Tonight, Drew Magary has become the first person ever to win an Oscar for Best Actor, Best Director, Best Screenplay, Best Picture, Best Editing, AND Costume Design for his work in Pussytubin' 6: Tubik's Pube."). I have also staged imaginary conversations with any number of Hollywood luminaries. It's all so very, very sad. I should be given an honorary cat.

Onto THE SPEED CHESS! your letters:

Max:

I had a girlfriend who cut my hair for a long time and now all of a sudden I have to go to a professional. This sucks mostly because I have to now pay for haircuts. But I'm also lost on barber or hairdresser.

My wife cuts my hair (and shaves my back! What a lady!). I only wear underwear when she cuts it, so the hair falls all over my body. I like to stand up when she's done and I'm all covered in my own clippings, and then I pound my chest and go MONKEY MONKEY MONKEY!!!!! The wife is not charmed.

I revel in the fact that I never have to pay for a haircut or tip a hairdresser again. Seriously, my wife will tip her hairdresser an obscene amount. WHY? It's not like the haircut was delivered.

One time, my wife got tired of cutting my hair and asked me to consider going to a salon or barbershop. I said no fucking way. Once you get free haircuts, going back is an impossibility. So I feel for you, brother. What if you just bought a pair of clippers and did it yourself? Jamie Oliver cuts his own hair, and he only looks mildly retarded. You tell me that's not worth saving yourself a trip to Jean Louis David.

Besides, there's no guarantee you'll get a good haircut if you go pro. There's not a guy out there who hasn't been completely FUCKED by a barber once or twice. I went to a barber once who had put that scratchy-as-hell collar around my neck and proceeded to make my hair look like it had just been attacked by a cougar.

I got a haircut once and went to show it to my insane ex-girlfriend, who got mad at me simply because she didn't like it. And it was just a normal haircut. Maybe a little short, but I didn't have the barber carve boobs in my hair or anything. She was in tears, she hated it so much. Women like that should be gassed.

Kendall:

My best friend swears that in over five years with his girlfriend he has not farted in her presence. Which lead me to two conclusions. 1) I can't believe they're still together, and 2) this has a make him a huge pussy, right?

Sure does. What's the point of having a girlfriend if you can't terrify her by dropping ass in the middle of some terrible movie she rented? On a deeper level, not farting around your girlfriend (or boyfriend, for that matter) suggests that you really aren't all that comfortable around her. I mean, really. Five years and you don't feel comfortable enough to let it rip with your old lady around? What, are you still trying to maintain the illusion of courtship? Ridiculous. You should WANT a girlfriend who you feel clear to nuke the couch around. That means you're yourself, instead of some dipshit guy putting on airs whenever his chick is around. I hate guys like that.

I got a lot of emails about "Hey, when is it okay to fart around your girlfriend?" And the answer to that is this: Just do it when you feel comfortable doing it around her, and you know she won't give a shit. If you never reach that point, congratulations. You need a new girlfriend.

Willie:

If you're at someone else's house (parents or in-laws don't count) and the bomb doors open, do you spray the air freshener after you purge? I'm always torn on what to do. I mean, the aerosol is there for a reason, but I don't want the whole house knowing that I just dropped the big one on Nagasaki by spreading lilac scent all around.

Well look, a smell will radiate from that bathroom regardless of what you choose. You may as well spring for the air freshener. Everyone will know what you did anyway.

At my old work, there was a huge can of Oust in the shitter, and everyone sprayed it after dropping anchor. The only problem was that the can always blasted out freshener at 560 mph, so even the lightest squeeze would produce a giant mist cloud of lavender that you could literally taste in your mouth and feel permeating your nostrils as you walked out the door. I think I would have been happier just to let sleeping poops lie.

Bryan:

Why do people back into their parking spot? I get pissed at this.

Why? Backing into a spot ensures an easy pullout when you leave. Why wouldn't you back in if it's an easy move to pull off? If I'm at the grocery store and the parking lot is relatively empty, I always pull through the initial parking spot so that I'm "backed in" to the adjacent spot. Feels like winning the lottery, because it means I got through the parking lot without having to look backwards, which hurts my back and shit.

I get pissed at parking spots that warn you FRONT IN ONLY. Hey, parking Nazis, what the fuck do you care if I back in or not? The car is the same length regardless. Kiss my tailpipe.

Robin:

I've recently started adding a fried egg to any sandwich prepared at home. I start the egg cooking in a non-stick pan, and by the time I have everything else unwrapped/sliced/ready to assemble, it's already time to flip. Then when the rest of the sandwich is ready, the egg goes on top, with the yolk still a little runny. There's something primal about eating these things, it's like I'm biting into the heart of a yellow-blooded buffalo.

Egg yolk improves everything. I watch Anthony Bourdain's show, and he'll always go to some crazy Burmese street market where they give him buffalo heart stew and they ALWAYS put a fried egg yolk in the center of it. Holy shit, I want to lick the screen when they show that yolk break. Sometimes, I think it's weird that I eat eggs, since they're chickenbortions. But one bite is pretty much all you need to alleviate your concerns.

On a deeper level, it's stunning that chicken eggs are the essential ingredient in so many different kinds of food. Breads. Pasta. Cakes. Cookies. Salad dressings. Eggs play a vital role in all of them. They're like MAGIC.

Trooper:

How long do you think it will be before we have an out and proud athlete in one of the four major American sports (MLB, NFL, NBA, NHL)? I'm not talking a superstar; the guy could be a third string goalie out of Saskatchewan for all I care. As a gay sports fan, I just think it's overdue, since we know there have been gay guys in the leagues in the past. Also, which of those sports do you think will have a gay athlete first?

It'll be forever. Whoever does it will be someone who came out at an early age and enters whichever league an already-known gay quantity. I doubt you'll ever see some guy who is already a pro suddenly pipe up, HEY! I'M GAY! There are a lot of reasons for this. First off, too many pro athletes are nutjob Evangelicals who fucking hate gays. How many white baseball players out there love to hunt and listen to country music? FUCKING ALL OF THEM. It's uncanny. 75% of Rascal Flatts' revenue comes from Major League Baseball players. Not the sort of guys who like themselves the gay. And I don't think many Latino players are all that pro-gay, either. Very macho culture, as Razor Ramon taught me.

Also, most pro athletes are extremely young guys, pumped up with testosterone and ungodly amounts of HGH. Most of them are aggressively heterosexual. BRAH! I FUCKED THIS CHICK LAST NIGHT! TWICE! BRAHHHHHHH!!! EW, DON'T TOUCH MY TOWEL! THAT WOULD MAKE ME A FAGGOT! There's that urge to be as hetero as possible. Drink the most, bang the most, blah blah blah.

I'll go ahead and freely admit now that, when I was in high school, I could easily be characterized as a homophobe. I used the word faggot all the time (even more than I do now!). I adored Dice Clay. I didn't think gays deserved rights or anything else other than ridicule. I didn't LIKE gays. At all. And not for any sort of bullshit moral reason. No, I was that way because I enjoyed it, and I suspect many other homophobes also hate gays simply because they like to hate them. I could blame youth or growing up in the '80s for how I felt, but that's a bullshit excuse. It's embarrassing and shameful and I wish I'd never felt that way.

It didn't take long for me to do a complete 180 on that old mentality and become extremely liberal in my attitudes towards gays and very supportive of gay rights. This is because I got older, settled down, and realized that inherently disliking gays (or any people outside of Duke fans) is pointless, stupid, and cruel. Some men need to grow up to reach that conclusion, and pro sports is an arena in which players are encouraged to NEVER grow up. Hence, HEY GUYS, GARY'S A FAG!!!!!

If there is ever an active gay athlete in pro sports, it'll never be in football (too many players, too many control freak coaches who don't want to deal with it), or baseball. It'll be in basketball. Because the teams are smaller, so there are less teammates to win over. And, if the gay player is crazy talented, the team will support him because there are only a finite number of superstar players. I'd expect that to happen sometime around the year 3498.

Somewhere along the way, a site like TMZ (or even this one) will out a player by posting a picture of him tonguing some other guy in a leather bar or something. But that's not exactly the same as having an out and proud athlete in the pros. I don't think it'll happen for at least another 20 years. Sad but true.

Also, Jimmy Clausen eats cock.

Matt:

Are you ever a total dick to your friends for no reason? I often find myself making comments to my friends saying stuff like they have no future, no job, no money. Even worse I also make comments about me wanting to bang my friend's mom and sister. No particular reason, but the conversations going nowhere so I decide to spice it up by being a dick.

Yes, because there is a comfort level you reach with certain friends in which you are FREE to be a dick, and so you indulge because you can. You couldn't be a dick to strangers. That would be weird. Much better to be a cock to the best man at your wedding. DAVE, YOU FORGOT TO GET PEANUTS? GOD DAMMIT, YOU ARE A FUCKING FUCKUP. This is why guy friends hit each other for no reason.

ME: Hey, Jeremy.

JEREMY: What?

ME: (punches Jeremy in gut) BOOSH!

It's just one of those guy things. Though I will tell you, when you get older, that dickishness fades, largely because your friends are never around for you to be a dick to.

Matt:

When searching for porn (particularly of the amateur variety), do you ever keep hope in the back of your mind that you'll stumble across an old girlfriend or someone from high school? That'd be the best porn surprise ever. It'd be like a sci-fi movie where you can create real images from your spank bank.

As I mentioned earlier, I had a batshit insane ex-girlfriend, and sometimes I wonder if I'll ever stumble across her not doing porn, but in a news item in which she has been either arrested or killed. I'm not saying I WANT that to happen. I'm just saying I wouldn't be shocked at such things. Just waiting for that shoe to drop. I mean, she lied to me about where she went to school and where she worked. For, like, a fucking YEAR. She could totally be a drug mule now.

Nick:

I spotted this one on a tour boat in Seattle a few years ago and I'll be damned if that is not a penis pattern staring back at me from inside the bowl.

And it's aiming AT you! What kind of game are they playing?

Presidente:

Ever try to squeeze a couple bagfuls of Caprisun into a normal glass? Fucking awful. There must be some kind of devil's magic in that tiny fucking thinner-than-Michael-Vick's-herpes-ravaged-urethra straw, because in any other vessel the juice just tastes like the nastiest watered down crap you could imagine.

Plus it only fills one-fourth of the glass. Certain foods are enhanced by either their vessel or the setting in which they are served. Like Capri Sun. Or giant pretzels at the ballpark. Some of those pretzels are real dogshit.

Bagoon:

I was a massive manwhore in college simply because the opportunities always presented themselves. The thing I miss most about the whole being single thing is the Predator scenario I went through every night at the Frats; I felt like I was in that invisible mode with the heat seeker vision going. I'd just stealth through the blackness and find the weak one and BAM hookup glory. I always imagined this is how every guy went about it, but recently I was told I was an asshole.

Well, who told you that? A woman? If a man told you that, then he probably reads The Atlantic, or something like that. All I know is that, when I was single and drunk, I searched for any live body I could get my hands on. Why wouldn't you? You're only single once, you know. Or eight times if you're Jean-Claude Van Damme.

There were times when I was drunk, and I really did feel like an animal scouring the dance floor for available womenfolk. Hooking up was the only goal. Ever. I never went out one night and was like, "So long as I get ice cream, THIS WILL BE A FUN EVENING!" No, it was always poon or bust. I never wanted to go home without making sure I first exhausted every possible avenue to finding a lady for the evening. Any lady: big, small, retard, whatever. I guess that made me a creep. I don't think I really gave a shit at the time. If you're single? Have at it.

Aaron:

Ever email something to yourself at work and then, in the 30 seconds it takes to "deliver" the email, completely forget about it and freak out when you realize you have a new message? I do this nearly every day.

ME: Clicks send on email to self, leans back in chair, relaxes, thinks about possibility of leaving early

(/five seconds pass, New Message alert pops us)

ME: Fuck, now what? It's Friday afternoon. This better not be a ...

(/slowly realizes own idiocy)

Sometimes. What usually happens with me is that I'll email myself to remind myself to do something. Then I'll open the email the instant I send it because I have email OCD and can't stand the idea of unopened mail in my inbox, then immediately forget to do what I was reminding myself to do. Happens to me pretty much on a daily basis.

I forget everything now. The same shit, over and over again. I'm supposed to brush my kid's teeth every morning. I always forget. ALWAYS. The wife comes down…

WIFE: You brush her teeth?

ME: FUCK!!!!!! (hits self in head)

I get unreasonably angry at myself when I forget to do things. My wife will call me at the store to remind to pick something up, and the SECOND I hang up the phone, I will forget about it. Annoying.

When it comes to email, the thing I hate the most is when I'm eagerly awaiting an email reply from someone about something, then the INBOX (1) will appear, then I'll fall all over myself to open my inbox, and then it's a piece of fucking spam. Never fails to make me want to spear a group of schoolchildren to death.

Robert:

Is it ok that I also blow my nose in the sink? Like once I've finished doing the dishes, sometimes I'll just keep the water running and blow my nose straight into my bare hands. The water is hot and immediately absolves me of all grossness. Amiright? My girlfriend looks at me like I'm a fucking abomination, but lets face it: I am the model of efficiency.

I do this, but I never do it with my wife around. THIS IS WHERE WE PUT OUR CHILDREN'S DISHES! Yes, but the kid's plates are loaded with their half-chewed food and drool, shit that is just as revolting as my loogies. I fail to see how I'm befouling something that houses so many dirty things to begin with. Plus, I can clean it! There's a dishbrush right there, lady!

Luke:

I've lived in a city for fourteen years now and the thing I miss the most about the country is going to a house party, getting shithammered, and wandering out into the woods behind the house to take a piss. Even (arguably especially) in knee-deep winter snow. It feels like Freedom, like it was meant to be this way for men. When I visit my hometown I hit every tree before I leave.

That is a great feeling. I remember at college, it was never really all that fun to wade through 80 people in the crowd at a party just to find a tiny piece of real estate to stand there with a friend and shout shit to one another. Always nicer to go outside into the cold and have some fucking room. You appreciate the air more when you're blitzed out of your skull. And you can actually hear other people when you're talking to them.

I loved wandering out in the cold with a Solo cup full of shitty beer in hand and just standing out there in the night, either on a porch or in the woods. Something peaceful about it. Until I booted in the snow.

Adam:

If you had to be shot where would you want to take it?

Upper left arm? Upper left arm. Provided no bones are broken by the bullet. Although, I had a football coach in college who was accidentally shot in the calf during Mardi Gras. No bones broke, he was too drunk to really remember the initial hit, and he was left with a nice little bullet wound that served as potential fodder for any number of great lies. Hard to find a more pleasant being-shot scenario than that.

HALFTIME!

Tony:

Fuck banana strings. FUCK THEM.

There's always one clinger when I peel. Terrible.

Mike:

Ever go to someone's house or a restroom (for whatever reason some faucets on the U of Minnesota campus are like this) and be surprised to find a sink that has separate faucets for hot and cold water? How in God's name am I supposed to have a decent handwashing experience? On the one hand (literally!) my palm is burnt to shit and the other is a fucking icicle. Am I supposed to move my hands back and forth really fast like I'm doing some fucking rave dance? Fuck you double faucets!

Most double faucets are that way because they're old, and whoever is in charge of the bathroom is too cheap to replace them. It's the cousin of the "push the button to start the faucet and watch the water peter out one-fourth of the way through your wash" faucet at various rest stops across our fair nation.

I avoid the hot water entirely in that scenario because you never know where someone has set their water heater. A water heater acts like a governor on hot water. It can only get as hot as you set it. Some people set the water heater in their home or building to 5 million degrees. Only you won't know that until you go to wash your hands, flip the faucet up to the right, and then get third-degree burns all over the goddamn place.

People who turn their water heaters up like this fail to understand the principles of operating a sink or shower. When I operate any sink, I first jam the faucet all the way to the left. This is because most of the time, the water starts out cold as balls. So my thinking (wrong) is that jamming the faucet all the way to the left will get the water hotter, faster. I also do this to gauge the maximum hotness of the water, and then adjust the faucet to the right accordingly. I am horrid at getting the temperature exactly right. I always overcorrect to the right, the water gets too cold, and then I have to slowly move the control back to the left.

Anyway, throwing it all the way to the left on a sink where A) the water heater is turned way fucking high, and B) the sink has an abnormally quick heating rate (only in deathly hot sinks and showers does this occur), leaves me yelping in pain from the burn. No pain causes me to violently jerk my body away like burning my hand or my finger. One touch, and I spasm like a bitch. SON OF A CUNT THAT IS HOT!!!

Nick:

There is nothing lower or more humiliating then having to call the front desk and ask for a plunger at a hotel.

No? Not even calling the front desk and asking if the adult films are discreetly billed, which is precisely how I phrased my question to the concierge, who said yes, but wasn't being truthful?

Eric:

Why do people refrigerate ketchup? Everything you put ketchup on is warm/hot. Putting cold ketchup on warm eggs or hash browns ruins it. Would you put cold gravy on mashed potatoes?

No, but there's a reason why. Ketchup is a necessary cooling agent. You get fries fresh out of the fryer, they will burn the fuck out of your hard palate if you just start going to town on them. But dip them in cool ketchup? BOOM. Hot stays hot. Cool stays cool.

And off you go. Whereas gravy makes for a critical warming agent. How long do mashed potatoes stay hot? Three minutes? But pour boiling hot gravy on them, they stay hot all the way through the meal. You see? THIS IS SCIENCE.

Also, putting ketchup on eggs is fucking gross.

Matt:

Were you tired of watching SportsCenter and hearing fucking Mike Greenberg tell everyone that we always forget that the US had to go play another game after upsetting the Soviets?

"And don't forget! I KNOW A FACT THAT YOU ALSO KNOW, BUT I'M GOING TO ASSUME YOU DON'T!"

Will:

Recently I spent a Saturday afternoon shopping with my girlfriend at the local mall. I was struck by how badly I wanted to beat up numerous 15 year-olds. And am I justified in my desire to maim these teenage deviants?

Yep. I mean Jesus, they look like fucking dipshits. I feel like an old person hating on teenagers, but really. Those fucking kids who are blocking my path to my car because they're skateboarding in the goddamn parking lot? BUY AN EMPTY SWIMMING POOL. And get a fucking haircut, you little shits.

Jim:

Don't want your buttons broken? Unbutton your goddamned clothes! As someone who has worked at a dry cleaners, I can tell you that if the shirt goes into machines with buttons buttoned, it will pull on the shirt and rip the damn thing off. So I spent some nights at work until 3AM unbuttoning buttons. The only comfort was pot.

Ah. I did not know that. Um… sorry.

Poopy Buttrag:

Everyone knows that it sucks when a coworker decides to request your Facebook friendship. The other day, the girl-next-door but conservatively-dressed Asian who I sometimes make small talk with in the hallway decided to do just that. To my surprise, amongst the most boring pictures you'd ever want to see, were two pictures of her in a bikini at the beach last summer. She doesn't know, but she unwittingly caused the spilling of gallons of baby sauce over the months ahead. So thank you, my co-worker friend, my micro-tadpoles are going to see the world rather than just the inside of my testicles because of you. This is appropriate, right?

Referee Mills Lane?

"I'll allow it."

Look, she posted the pictures, and she was the one who friended you. Classic female naivete.

HER: "Oh, look at this picture! That was a fun beach trip! I bet everyone will agree with me that this picture shows I had fun!"

YOU: (drooling, licking chops, could give two shits about someone else's vacation) Grrrrr… fresh meat… want to touch…

Tom:

Can we safely say that Home Alone is the most unrealistic movie of all time? The kid doesn't say a fucking word about what he did to anyone. You expect me to believe that kid, who successfully got to live out every man's fantasy, is just going to keep all of the awesome shit he did to himself?

Yeah, and all he wants is plain cheese pizza? No sausage? No pepperoni? I hate kids like that. SHOW SOME ADVENTUROUSNESS.

Ten-year-old kids like that would obviously brag about foiling burglars. They'll brag about anything, even shit they shouldn't be bragging about. I once bragged on my school bus about having a wet dream. THERE'S NOTHING COOL ABOUT HAVING A WET DREAM.

V-Juice:

What's the deal with the "close door" buttons on elevators? I have never seen one that works when you push it. People seem to think that hitting it repeatedly, hitting it slowly, etc will be the trick to get the door closed faster. It won't.

I've seen CLOSE DOOR buttons that work. What's more, I have totally been guilty of pushing the button repeatedly. I know it doesn't do anything extra. It just feels good to jam the fuck out of it over and over. Pushing buttons is just a fun thing to do. My kids have toys with buttons you push, like plastic cash registers and shit. I push the buttons on them all the time. Just because.

Also, when in an elevator, I dread some fucker coming at the last minute and causing the doors to reopen, costing me valuable nanoseconds on my descent or ascent. I HAVE SHIT TO DO!

Jon:

I just made an off-hand joke to my friends about how when I build a house, I'm gonna put a urinal in my bathroom, and they all laughed and shrugged me off. So I started getting adamant about it. Why not? One guy says it's not classy. What?! I walk into a dude's house and he's got a urinal in his master bath, I am fucking impressed, this guy has it all in excess. Another dude says if there's a woman in the house, it's useless. Uh, except for the total elimination of toilet seat fights for the rest of your life and/or relationship!

Tell me I'm not crazy. I'm going urinal shopping tonight.

I'd also put that goalie thing from the last mailbag in the pisser, just for that extra homey touch.

You, of course, DO have a urinal in your home. It's called the shower. Though I fully concede I only piss in the shower when inside it or about to step in. I've never peed in my own shower while clothed and not actually USING the shower. That would be weird.

I doubt any wife would allow a urinal in the bathroom. Too crass, they'd say. They'd suggest two full toilets instead. I'd accede to that, but insist on a urinal in the basement game room of my mansion. I think I could win that battle.

Kyle:

I went to Ohio State. My roommates and I lived in an older split-level home which the new owner converted into 1 house. We converted one of the living rooms into a pool room. We were down there playing and one of the wall panels suddenly fell over. We took a look inside and we find a BIG FUCKING SAFE HIDDEN IN THE WALL. There were only 2 of us in the room at the time, so we gathered all of our roommates around for the unveiling. Alas, completely empty. This was extremely depressing.

If you were to find a safe in an older home, what would you expect or want to find inside of it?

The following: A money belt containing $50,000 cash of every foreign currency. Numerous passports with various aliases and pictures of a man who, as luck would have it, bears a solid resemblance to myself. A secret list containing the names and addresses of various foreign double agents living abroad. A rifle. Two handguns. An open plane ticket to Paris. Security tapes of Tim Tebow punching a pregnant woman.

Brian:

This is a debate I've had many times: Out of any TV show past or present, what fake home or set do you wish you could live on? I'm talking living your normal life; the actual cast from the show doesn't factor in. Here are mine, in no particular order:

1. The Cosby Show: Huge house in Brooklyn, they had a backyard where you could grill/shoot hoops, along with a home office. That's only affordable on a doctor/lawyer's marriage. This is about 500% larger than any normal person's home in NYC or the boroughs.

2. Silver Spoons: Everything had a remote control. Hey! Someone's at the door — let me GRAB THE FUCKING REMOTE and see who it is. They had a train that would take you around the house. They had a plethora of REAL video games in their game room.

3. The Brady Bunch

4. The Facts of Life: I want to live in a house that has a bakery connected to it. Hungry in the middle of the night? OPEN THE BAKERY.

5. The Sopranos: Huge kitchen/living room, with a bed that always looks extremely big and comfortable.

Wayne Manor. Wayne Manor all the fucking way. Batcave. Batmobile. Batpoles. Butler. I'll take all that, thank you.

Not to go all Simmons on you, but pretty much any Real World house. They're always huge. They always have all kinds of cool shit in them. They're always in a good location. Apart from fumigating the joint and cleaning all the douche out, it's hard to argue with the joint they had in London or Miami or any of those places. I watched that show when it started, and they'd always tour the joint, show you all the awesome stuff, then show you the ungrateful fucks who got to hang out in it. Always made me want to punch them in the fucking face.

Moviewise, I always had a real affection for Winthorpe's place in Philly in Trading Places. God damn, that looked like a nice place. Always wanted to live in a bigass city townhome like that. Mozart playing at all hours.

Mike:

Are you ever disappointed when you are done eating because you have no food left? I'll go to a fast food joint and even though I spent enough money to buy a gourmet meal I am a little sad inside when I eat that last chicken nugget. After sadness comes shame for eating so much.

Happens pretty much every time I eat. I'm never emotionally prepared when the last bite arrives, especially now that I'm on a diet. Oh, that's it. No more after this. Well, that's… (has nervous breakdown)

Chas:

If you could choose a song to play when entering a toilet stall, what would it be? And you can't say "Smell what The Rock is Cookin'." That is too easy.

"Sky Is Falling," by Queens of the Stone Age.

NSR:

Like you, I am gay for Tim Gunn and crew. The reason I watch the show is to find my secret hip designer TV girlfriend to lust over for four months. This season I have it bad for Maya – those retro black bangs and lips make me want to throw her up against the Bluefly accessory wall. So, how to you strike the right balance of picking a favorite and rooting for her (or him, to each his own) without betraying the carnal reason below to your wife?

I swear to God, Maya spends every week staring at the camera looking like she's going to crawl through the set and do blow off your stomach. The fact that appears to be roughly 3 feet tall is little deterrent. She's got ScarJo's face and upper chestal area, and they ALWAYS stick her in the front row when they gather designers so she can primp for the camera. No way that girl doesn't spend every night in Manhattan out at clubs until 4 a.m. popping ecstasy pills like Tic Tics.

Anyway, just keep that shit to yourself. Root for the hilarious gay black dude, like I do. Black people NEVER win that fucking show.

Kristofferson Kriskristofferson:

My bottle of shampoo contains the following instructions: 1. Lather 2. Rinse 3. Repeat. My question to you is whether anyone actually repeats and, if so, why? Is this just a scam perpetrated by the shampoo industry to encourage needless consumption of its product?

I think you might repeat if you got poop in your hair or something. Something you REALLY wanted to make sure was completely evacuated from your hair. I think I lathered and rinsed twice once when I got boot in my hair. Tough to get all that boot out.

FT:

Me and three buddies helped a friend move into a 4th floor walkup last weekend. Anyway, towards the end of the day, we carried this guy's huge couch up four flights of steps. Given that there were four other people involved, I decided that it was ok for me to "fake lift" the couch up the steps. I put my hands under the couch just like everyone else, had a strained look on my face and make appropriate grunting noises. The other guys clearly were really lifting, and they had no idea what I was doing. Am I a bad guy for engaging in this fraud? Isn't everyone entitled to a "fake lift" every now and then?

Yes. Absolutely. I enjoy coming in late to the group heavy object lift and grabbing it in one of those magic spots where there is no weight being borne. If enough people lift one heavy object, there are always spots like that. It's one of the more pleasant surprises of a move.

When moving, I used to get off on moving very large and cumbersome (but light) objects on my won with no assistance. Makes you totally look strong. "Are you gonna move that whole plush chair yourself?" Oh, yes. BANK ON IT. Sometimes, if you're lucky, a woman will watch you move the whole object with a look of concern on her face the whole time. She thinks you're going to drop it. BUT YOU DON'T. FUCKING STRONG.

Marcus:

Occasionally I'll catch myself worrying what would happen if I suddenly forgot how to breathe. There would be that small moment in time when I almost swallow my tongue, followed by extreme panic as I can't figure out how to open my throat again. I usually just tell myself that if it hasn't happened yet, it probably won't but, like clockwork, at least once a month I am overtaken with anxiety about it (for at least 4 seconds).

I only get that same pang of anxiety whenever I take over voluntary breathing functions for something like stretching, or just breathing slowly to calm down. Once I become conscious of my breathing, I get a little worried that the involuntary function may never come back, and I'll have to spend the rest of my life remembering to inhale and shit.

Andy:

I reply to IMs while masturbating. Chances are if you know me, and have IM'd me with any sort of frequency in the past 14 years, I've taken a moment out of my jerking to kindly reply to you.

That is wrong, and I don't condone it. You're going to slime your keyboard doing that.

Chuck:

If you're ever at one of those restaurants with a self-service soft serve machine and the "ice cream" is coming out a bit slowly, I highly suggest making groaning sounds as if the machine is in the midst of a difficult dump. Any eight-year-old boy in line behind you will find it quite entertaining.

What restaurant has that? Golden Corral? I'd abuse that thing like a robot lover.

Alden:

True story: I purchased my first box of tampons last September (I'm a 25 year old dude) before going to Kabul, Afghanistan for the first time. I had heard they were good for plugging bullet holes in the event you found yourself perforated by an AK-47. I bought the heaviest flow I could find because I figured I'm a bleeder. I bought the generic CVS brand; should I have splurged for name-brand tampons?

I defer to Iraq vet Matt Ufford on this. Uff says:

I have yet to hear the theory that you should jam something inside a bullet wound — especially since first aid compresses already exist (also, those compresses are designed for combat use and easy to tear open, not wrapped in plastic like tampons).

That said, as with all other products, the higher price of name-brand products in drug stores is only for the slick packaging. I would guess that the CVS tampons stop blood flow just as well Tampax or whatever.

So there you go. You made both a wise purchase AND a stupid purchase. Give them to your mom.

Finally today, yet another GREAT MOMENT IN POOP HISTORY. And once again, we deal with the Vice Presidency.

Zach [NOTE: It's come to our attention that this story bears a striking resemblance to this one, from The Foggy Monocle]:

I headed to the bathroom before going back to work. I was finishing up my pee (definitely NOT masturbating) when two men in suits entered, each sporting dark sunglasses and a white telephone cord that reached from their left ear backwards into the collar of their jacket. Completely brushing past me and another gentleman at the sink, they proceeded to open every stall and inspect, flushing one of them as they continued to probe the lavatory. It reminded me of a cop looking for drugs at my house. As my curiosity neared its apex, I saw one of the men raise his hand to his face and speak furtively into his mic, "We're all clear."

Suddenly the bathroom door flew open as if drawn by a magnet, and then Vice President Cheney himself entered hastily with his hand clutching his gut. Ushered by another service agent, he gave my fellow witness and me the slightest head nod as he rifled for the appointed stall. While my powder room corroborator exited the bathroom immediately, I idled for a second, spurred by my hangover perhaps, and "feigned" vanity as I peered into the mirror. Soon it happens. A few noises emanated from that fated stall, sounding off like a bag of pudding rupturing violently from the inside, followed by a barely audible vocal contraction. Holy shit! So the second-in-command of our country is not immune to gastrointestinal volatility. Any pangs of disgust were immediately overruled by the goofy smile I was involuntarily forced to wear. This was obviously too much to take. Shooting for the door, I caught a stern glance from one of the Matrix dudes that conveyed the unspoken words, "You better not fucking tell anyone about this." I suppose the widespread dissemination of this story is just my cross to bear.

He greeted that toilet as a liberator.

Boner from Growing Pains committed suicide last week, and that left me sad. More important, it made me remember that I used to watch that show religiously, and spent a great deal of my childhood imaging that I was Mike Seaver. There was one episode where Carol brings home some new friend: a smoking hot blonde chick. Well, turns out the smoking hot blonde chick is only friends with Carol so that she can get closer to Mike. And so, when Carol isn't looking, Mike and the hot chick totally hook up. I thought this was the hottest thing ever, and spent countless nights imagining that chick was trying to hook up with me. Pillows were kissed. I was a very lonely young man. To the letters:

Ocho Quatro:

I'm sitting here studying for some BS test and I realize that when I write, there are certain letters that I get an immense sense of satisfaction from when executed flawlessly. This is probably largely subjective, but when I CRUSH an upper case R, P, D, or G, I fucking go apeshit internally. Some letters, depending on handwriting style, are just more difficult to pull off than others. But, when crafted to perfection, it totally (if only momentarily) inflates my self worth. Because of the fact that I am so conscious of this, I expect that when people read my shit they say to themselves, "Damn, dude knows his way around a pen."

I only wish I could experience the same sense of satisfaction. Alas, my handwriting is so poor I rarely get to experience it. A doctor's signature is more legible than my retard chicken scratch.

This is largely due to sloppiness. I am, unsurprisingly, a very sloppy person. But, once in a while, I will bear down and try really hard to craft attractive, symmetrical letters by hand, like if I'm spelling my kid's name on the Doodle Pad for her. I put everything I have into making those letters look presentable, and sometimes I get one or two that look really splendid. The lines are straight. No bumps in the curves. Just a really nice letter. Of course, the rest of the word looks like it was written by an epileptic cat, but at least I nailed one letter!

This was an even more gratifying experience in grade school, when they taught cursive. Some of the cursive letters are a real bitch, like capital G, Z, F, and J. Most of the time, I ended up with some horribly mangled version of those letters. Looked like a fucking snowman by the time I was done. But sometimes, I would fucking NAIL the big Z, and as Ocho says, that was a great feeling. I'd sit back and marvel at my handiwork. "Fucking look at that. That could be in the Magna Carta, it's so perfect." The rest of my word would be fucked, but that one cursive letter would provide some solace.

I admire people with nice handwriting. My wife got a thank you note from a friend once, and I swear to God, the writing looked like a fucking font. Complete uniformity of letters. And all on the same plane. When I write, the letters bob up and down all over the place, like buoys. There's no imaginary line they're all sitting on.

I have only one exception to my bad writing, and that is when I write dirty words in the sand with my foot at the beach. I can carve a COCK! in the sand that looks completely professional. People would be impressed, if they didn't think there was something wrong with me.

StillaLittlebaked:

Which would you rather have: Harry Potter's powers knowing that you would have to go to school for 7 years and probable training after you are done with school, or the Force where you just have the abilities in you if you do rather than try. Between my friends its split almost 50-50 having the Force would be awesome and we feel like you could get more snatch with the Force, but magic has it's advantages too like seeing Hermione in a school girl outfit every day.

Wizard powers. Not even close. You think the Force doesn't require training? You have to fly to the Dagobah System, run through the jungle with Yoda on your back, lift spaceships out of swamps, confront your evil father, and do all kinds of crazy shit. Plus, your parents would still send you to school anyway, to be a well rounded person. Luke never even got to go to the Toshi station to get some power converters.

Whereas if you have Harry Potter powers, you get to go to the awesomest boarding school ever. Secret passage galore. Butterbeer in abundance. And your powers are far more diverse than the Force. The Force means you can fly, manipulate matter, and shoot lightning bolts out of your fingers. Well, wizards can do that, but they can also order pots to wash themselves, turn invisible, turn people into rabbits, and all kinds of other crazy shit. The only downside is that you get a wand instead of a light saber. But I'll be honest, I don't mind the wand. I would like a wand. When I was in choir in school, the teacher had a conducting baton. I used that thing as a wand all the fucking time. Wands are more fun than they get credit for. Even today, I'll pick up a drumstick or one of my kid's play wands and cast imaginary spells with it. BECAUSE I'M A FUCKING WIZARD.

Slim Jim:

Whenever my wife takes me into Victoria's Secret I get a stiffy just from looking at the lingerie on the mannequins. It happens without fail. (I guess I'm not a head or leg man.) Tell me I'm not the only one.

You are not. I'm very impressed with the progress made in mannequin design over the years. They've gotten highly bangable, with real curves and everything. None of them turns into Kim Cattrall, but that's nitpicking.

I was at the mall this weekend and I walked by a Bebe store (Bebe: official apparel provider of your slutty sister), and the mannequins were fucking smoking hot. Tight skirts. Push up bras. I could barely tear myself away. If I were a single man, I bang the SHIT out of a Bebe mannequin.

Crazyjoedavola:

Just came back from taking the kids to McDonalds for the germ infested fun they call the playplace. But on to my question. What is the phenomena that makes a fry cook/cashier believe they have become a Treasury agent any time you hand them a $50?

Oh, where they hold it up to the light and search for a watermark and everything? Hey look, they're stuck working at a fucking McDonald's. Give them the fantasy of pretending they may be on the verge of busting a Yakuza-run international counterfeiting syndicate. GRANT'S BEARD IS TOO SHORT ON THIS BILL!

Jack:

As a current college sophomore who is currently typing this e-mail in my Latin American Culture and Politics class, which takes place from 4:15-7 every Monday afternoon, I've noticed that a laptop on the desk is a clear indication of a student who is doing absolutely jack squat in class. As I type this, three other students are, like me, sitting in the back row on their laptops. As a matter of fact, as I glanced over, a fellow laptop user gave me a nod as if we were passing truckers on a freeway. In less technologically advanced times, what did college students do to pass time during class?

You fucking lucky sons of bitches. I've wanted to bring this topic up for a while now, because a lot of people have written in saying they read Deadspin in class. Here's my question: what shithead professor lets you keep an open laptop in class? Are they fucking stupid? What student with a laptop will actually use it to take notes, or get a crucial document from the school intranet? None of them. Ever. If I were a college professor, I'd seize any open laptop or iPhone whipped out in class and wipe a booger on it. Then I'd fucking FAIL the offender. FAIL!!! You can take your fucking notes by hand, young man!

I went to college juuuust before the Internet exploded and WiFi became omnipresent on college campuses. And that makes me feel so fucking old, you have no idea. There was only one thing to do in class back then, and that was to fantasize about banging your classmates. ALL THE TIME. I never stopped. I thought about sex in class so often that there were times when I had to run to the john and go beat off, such was my erectile discomfort. Some of the bathrooms at my college were single occupancy. It was a nice perk.

Going to the bathroom, period, was also something I did to pass the time in class. Sometimes, I go to take a shit and then, just to extend my break, I'd walk around the hall, doing nothing. Just to avoid going back in.

Save that, all that was left for me to do in class was doodle. I drew only the following items: Rocketships, dicks, the Vikings logo, and the Metallica logo. Oh, and pentagrams. Because pentagrams are so easy to draw. It's one of the great lures of Satanism.

Mike:

My favorite artificial flavor is orange. I'm gay for orange gatorade, starburst, popsicle, ghetto soda, flavor-ice. If someone I know likes to eat all the pink starburst or pink skittles, I think they're soft.

I go for red. I ignore all the orange and yellow Starburst in the bag. I have long felt that orange and lemon Starburst are far too prevalent in the bag, as opposed to cherry red. Why is Starburst holding out on the cherry? Is it more expensive to produce? Will it give me cancer? FUCK YOU PEOPLE. GIVE ME MORE RED. If it doesn't denote cherry, it denotes fruit punch, and that makes me happy. That's how I take my slurpees, Jolly Ranchers, snow cones, and other assorted treats. This is how I would personally rank artificial flavors:

1. Red
2. Purple
3. Blue (blue raspberry)
4. Green (apple or lime)
5. Pink (strawberry or watermelon)
6. Orange
7. Yellow

I avoid black candy like AIDS.

Jim:

Going to school in the Midwest we had tornado drills every Spring. Basically, everyone goes into the hallway and crouches down. In my fantasy, the school is actually hit by a tornado, the roof is ripped up and the girl I had a crush on is lifted into the swirling vortex. Summoning all the strength that my spaghetti-like arms could muster and defying all laws of physics, I'm able to reach up in time to grab her and pull her back down to safety. It worked on two levels because not only did I save the girl, the school was destroyed in the process. So, ultimate 4th grade win-win situation?

Yes. Storm fantasies like that are perfect for grade school. HANG ON! DON'T LET GO! You can save the chick, and maybe even her dog. Then you can steal a car (in any fantasy emergency situation, commandeering a car is a must) and outrun the tornado.

When I was a kid, I always imagined a tornado or hurricane coming, and then swooping me up in the air, allowing me to fly like a bird before it eventually set me back down gently on the ground. I assumed, if I were in the proper flying position, that I could make this happen. I never got that chance.

Chris:

Can we find a way to measure strength by how many grocery bags we can carry? I would say I have average strength. But when it comes to carrying in grocery bags, there are never too many bags to take in one trip. It's probably because I'm too lazy to take more than one trip from the kitchen to the car, but I love the challenge of trying to carry every bag, and I swear even if I can only bench 180, I could EASILY bench 225 if it was in grocery bags.

Like you, I take every fucking bag in the trunk in my hands to prevent making a second trip to the car. The best part is when the wife looks at me, surprised at how many I'm carrying. "Really? That many bags?" OH, YES. BEHOLD MY ABILITY TO CARRY TWO MILK JUGS AND SIX BOTTLES OF SELTZER AT ONCE, WOMAN.

We have reusable grocery bags that we bring to the store. My wife likes these because they save the plant, or something. I like them because you can cram more shit into them, and because the handles are gentler on my delicate hands. It allows for even bigger hauling loads. Ever do one bicep curl with all the bags, just to see if you can? I have. I'm a fucking tool.

There are really only a handful of items from the store that will trip me up and prevent me from bringing everything in one trip. Those giant fucking packs of paper towels and TP will ruin me. So light, yet so very cumbersome. Also, twelve and 30-packs of beer or any canned fluid. Ever carry a twelve pack in a grocery bag? Agony. Boxes of diapers too. Fucking diapers.

One last thing about carrying groceries: I often fail to do a quick scan of which bags are holding which items, and so I'll often end up with an unbalanced load. In my right hand are all the cereal boxes, which weigh about a pound. In the other are the milk and canned goods, which weigh 5,000 lbs. You get scoliosis this way. Always check the bags before loading up.

Keoni:

Do you think that the reason humans have evolved so much is cause our meat tastes bad? Like if cows weren't delicious, they would be ruling the world and eating human burgers and afraid of another mad person disease.

Oh, you SO wrote that while stoned.

There's no reason human flesh couldn't be tasty if prepared correctly. Famed Mexican muralist Diego Rivera once experimented in cannibalism. According to this, he once recommended, "women's brains in vinaigrette." Women's brains? But that would be such a small portion! HEY OOOOOOO!!!

Seriously though, I have had the whole Alive fantasy where I'm stranded somewhere and forced to eat others. I've always wondered what I would do if I actually ended up LIKING the taste of human flesh. Wouldn't that torture you with guilt forever? You had to eat your best friend in an excruciating moment, and it turned out he was fucking DELICIOUS. I don't think I could handle that.

And you could never compliment the food openly in that scenario. You couldn't be sitting around the fire, eating dead sailor, and pipe up, "Hey! This thigh is actually pretty tasty!" That would be fucked.

Brandon:

I take my post-lunch deuce at the same time every day, 1:45 in the afternoon. For the past few weeks, some fucker has been coming into the bathroom, taking a leak in the urinal, and then shutting the fucking bathroom lights off on his way out. The first couple of times this happened, I was willing to give the guy the benefit of the doubt, and I actually started making my presence known by coughing, flushing the toilet, or doing anything to make just enough noise that any non-brain dead person would know there's somebody else in the fucking bathroom. Yet he still keeps turning the lights off. What the fuck? I'm thinking about finishing the deuce quickly next time and then setting a trap for him, and right when he turns the lights off, I run out of the stall and tackle him Terry "Office Linebacker" Tate style. Does he deserve it?

Yes. Turning off the lights when someone is still on the shitter is a move reserved strictly for best friends to do to one another. "God dammit, Daulerio!" Moreover, anyone who turns off the lights in a public bathroom is a fucking asshole, regardless of whether or not the bathroom is still occupied. Public bathrooms should remain lit 24 hours a day, seven days a week. It may waste energy, but it's well worth it to ensure that I don't walk into a public bathroom, realize the lights are off, and quickly think that A) I've walked into a janitor's closet by accident, or B) Someone is in that bathroom waiting to fucking kill me. Plus, the switch is not always so easy to find. I've been known to spend a solid 10 minutes looking for a bathroom light switch.

Stephen:

Is this you, Drew?

You go to Hell.

Rob:

Have you ever had a blood orange? I had my first yesterday, and instead of delicately separating the wedges like I usually do with a standard orange, I just dove right into the thing. The way the dark little sacs dripped as I tore through it, I couldn't help but feel like a zombie feasting on human flesh.

There are many foods good for this sort of fantasizing, but a blood orange has to be the best. I mean shit, BLOOD is right there in the name. And they really are that graphically messy.

Apart from blood oranges, you can also get the same rush from eating a very large turkey leg (it works because it's meat). That will indulge your Diego Rivera-style cannibal fantasies nicely. Basically, any food that is juicy and messy and is eaten by hand, without benefit of a bun or tortilla casing. Watermelon, I find, is also an excellent choice for this. When I eat a big wedge of watermelon, I am sure to do to as loudly as I can, so that it sounds like I'm a wild cannibal tearing through someone's shoulder. There is fun to be had with fruit outside of placing it in human orifices.

Kevin:

On Yahoo right now there's this story about the school shooting in Colorado (it is about that time of the year, kinda like hurricane season) and this math teacher that tackled the gunman while he was reloading after shooting two kids. Being a school teacher, you know this guy had thought that scenario through hundreds of times, so he was ready for it.

That's gotta be a huge plus for any teacher: dreaming of the day when you get to take down some fuckhead kid packing heat. If I were a teacher, I would petition the school to allow me to carry a gun or a bat on me at all times. I watched Lean On Me a lot. You can get a lot done in schools if you carry a bat around.

I remember, right after Columbine happened, I must have visualized being in the middle of that shit a hundred times. And, of course, in the fantasy, I never hid under a desk. No, no. I was the brave teaching assistant who coolly disarmed both kids and then pistol-whipped them into submission. Then I banged the prom queen. I am a fairly self-absorbed person.

Even before Columbine, I remember kids would always talk about some of the weirder kids in school and speculate on if they would ever come to school one day and start shooting the fuck out of people. I wonder if anyone thought I was capable of that. Because I totally wasn't. I mean, sure, sometimes I daydreamed in eighth grade of bringing a sawed-off to school and blowing Dave Miller to kingdom come. But it never got beyond the initial planning stages. Buying a gun is not as easy as some people make it out to be, you know. And that kid was a penis. He totally would have deserved it.

Ravi C:

I live alone, and when I'm eating in front of the TV, I tend not to eat during commercials because it seems like a waste. When I'm eating, remote in hand, I am the king, and the king MUST be entertained. I would rather let my Costco pizza become lukewarm than eat it while watching that insufferably perky bitch from Progressive try to sell me car insurance. If I have a movie on, the popcorn or what have you must not be opened until after the movie has begun in earnest (ie after the credits, assuming there's no substantial scene preceding them).

I always try and hold out, like you do, but if I have popcorn and I'm in a movie theater, the fucking bag isn't even making it through the Screen Scramble. It doesn't even make it to the previews. Then the movie starts and I have nothing to eat. When I was a teenager, I thought nothing of going back to the concession stand to buy seconds. That's a huge fat person move. No one gets seconds at the movies besides fat people.

Hurricane Andrew:

When excavating my nose I really enjoy finding one of those boogers that is crusty and easy to grasp, and while pulling it out discovering that it's about two inches long, requiring me to use delicate but continuous tension on the tug, lest it snap in half and destroy the moment. I then like to form the booger and its accompanying snot into a tiny ball between my thumb and middle finger, rolling it around until it looks like a miniature wad of peanut butter cookie dough. So simple and so satisfying.

Sometimes, particularly in the winter months, I will press the outside of my nostril into my nose, to ascertain if there is a crusty booger inside. And when I know there's one there, YOU TALK ABOUT AN ADRENALINE RUSH.

Conversely, there is no worse feeling than digging in for a great booger and not getting all of it. Total failure. Sometimes, I'll end up pushing the thing further up my nose. WHAT IF THAT BOOGER TOUCHED MY BRAIN? Or worse, the booger will just fucking disappear. I'll look in the mirror, and it's not even visible. Where did it go? Is it in my eyeball? SHOW YOUR FACE.

Jason B.:

Ever had a voice from another room that SHOULD be a mood killer but you've told yourself that you're going to jerk off and finish the job like the self-respecting self-pleasurer that you are? That's fucking concentration right there!

Yep. I always finish what I start, no matter the cost. But let's be honest, that's never a very satisfying nut. You may finish, but the damage to your overall sense of pleasure is done.

HALFTIME!

Mike:

If you filled up an entire bathtub with meat (I always pictured a tub full of ground beef, like from Taco Bell), and a dog had free reign at that bathtub, would a dog eat itself to death?

No. According to random people on Yahoo! Answers, it would eat to the point of vomiting, and then stop. Like me at Panda Express.

But that doesn't mean you shouldn't try!

Jay Landsman:

Have you ever reached for a cabinet handle without looking and leaned the way it should be opened, only to open up the cabinet right next to it and get pulled in the opposite direction? I love the feeling, but it can't be duplicated if you think about it, which pisses the shit out of me.

It's like when you get on an escalator, and the handrail of the escalator is moving at a faster rate than the escalator itself. Thus, if you hold onto the handrail but remain standing, it gently pulls you forward, like a woman escorting you to the bedroom. It's the little things.

Jason:

Is it okay for me as an ex-smoker to be a total hypocrite? I did it for years and was an absolute fucker as a smoker. Now that I quit, I've turned into the ex-fuckin-smoking gestapo.

I even bitch out my friends and tell them they can use me as a role model. I'm I an asshole, aren't I?

Nah, you're not a fucker. Everyone who quits smoking for good eventually turns around comes to fucking loathe cigarette smoke, even more so than people who never smoked to begin with. I have no problem with being shitty to smokers, because most smokers spend their time either bitching about where they can't smoke, or accidentally burning bystanders with their fucking butts. They can eat shit. You too, Leitch.

Kid Presentable:

As someone that has no authority to answer this, I figured I'd asked — how much do you think Jeopardy makes on any given episode? Think about it ... the worst-case Ken Jennings-type scenario for producers on any given night is for a contestant to walk away with $50,000 or more. And on average, most people win in the $15,000 - 30,000 range. I'm guessing they do somewhere in the region of 150 - 200 "new" shows per year. And as any normal show, they have to clear enough profit per episode (minus Trebek's contract) to warrant giving away that much cash.

Syndicated shows like Seinfeld can make up to $1 million per episode, so I assume Jeopardy! makes somewhere in that ball park, given that it gets similar, if not better, ratings in network syndication.

The more pressing question is this: Why the fuck do Jeopardy! and Wheel of Fortune both end, in essence, a good five minutes early? It baffles me. You tune in to Jeopardy! They do the first half of the first round, then go to ads. They finish Round 1, then go to ads. They finish Round 2, then go to ads. They have Final Jeopardy, then they go to ads. At this point, it's like 7:23PM. Then they come back from the last commercial to show Trebek talking with the contestant on the stage while the credits roll and they tell you Alex Trebek's wardrobe was provided by Perry Ellis. What the fuck is that for? They rush through the first two rounds, only to have this dead zone for five minutes at the end of every show. Final Jeopardy should be at the fucking end. I hate this.

Billy:

Old man strength. Where does it come from? At what age does it start? I would say at least 75% of my friend's dads have old man strength. And I'm not talking about opening a pickle jar. I'm talking about hitting the 2,000-foot high bell at the carnival with a hammer. It's a natural phenomenon. I swear to God that I've seen a 50 year old man pull a 3,000 pound tree out of the back of a truck.

It's particularly apparent during house chores. My father-in-law will limp into the house, looking like he needs a nap. Then you ask him to move a 1,000-pound armoire or pull a screw out of the wall with his teeth, and he turns into fucking Hercules.

And they're shockingly agile, too. They can get into crawlspaces and reach up to fix pipes, contorting themselves into positions that make me wince just fucking looking at them. Should you be doing that, old timer? Won't that hurt your liver or something?

I always assume I'm now at the age where I can kick my dad's ass if we throw down. After all, he's old and shit. But then he'll come up to me on occasion and grab my shoulder or something, in a sign of fatherly affection. And it will fucking HURT. Feels like a robot using his iron claw to throw me against a wall. And I'll be like, "Damn, this fucker has got a GRIP." I dunno if I could beat that fucker now.

Alex:

What's your opinion on the socially accepted frequency of "adjustments"? In the end, no matter how many times I adjust my junk, it never stays put in the optimal location for an extended period of time.

Do I adjust more or less frequently than the average male? Is my need to adjust my junk directly proportional to my desire to masturbate?

Well look, the socially acceptable number of junk adjustments as deemed by WOMEN is zero. Women think it's disgusting, and can't possibly understand why we're doing it. It has nothing to do with masturbatory tendencies, and is not sexual in any way. But women never understand that. They think we're pre-masturbating. Well, we're NOT. Get your fucking minds out of the gutter. Adjusting oneself is strictly done as a matter of personal comfort and should be welcomed, instead of shunned. You ladies try walking around with a cock and balls and see how long you can go without touching it. You won't last.

I've never seen how long I can go without making an adjustment, but I assume it's a period of no longer than seven minutes.

My kid starting grabbing his junk in the tub the other day. My Mrs. was terrified. I assured her it was perfectly normal. I told her a penis is a boy's first toy. She can't even look at me now.

AJ:

Having attended many NHL games over the years at the Mellon Arena in Pittsburgh, I always imagine myself as Jean-Claude Van Damme fighting a group of terrorists while the crowd (oblivious to their impending doom) watches the game in progress. Every time I see Iceburgh the Penguin, I want to karate kick him. I check the steel rafters for bombs when I go to get a beer. I also imagine myself in the scene where Jean-Claude has to enter the game as a goalie. I just skate out to the goal crease wearing all the gear and not a single person notices that I'm not actually Marc Andre Fleury.

That's a solid daydream because you get to both kill terrorists and participate in a professional sporting event. Whenever I walk into a stadium or large facility, I too check out the rafters, the duct work, and the catwalks and immediately picture having to climb up into them to stage a knife fight with a deadly German criminal mastermind.

In a crowded stadium, it's always fun to sit in the stands and scan the crowd for suspicious characters who could pose a threat. Why is that man NOT cheering? WHAT IS HE HIDING? It's fun to think you're the only person around who knows that SHIT IS ABOUT TO GO DOWN.

Brian:

I have seen a few bars unveil the urinal goals lately. After a few beers, you can blast the ball into the back of the net like your are Pele himself.

HOLY FUCKING SHIT. I would fly across an ocean to piss in something like that. I'd never leave the bathroom.

Bradford:

Why don't we have futuristic monorails everywhere yet?

I know. It's fucking annoying. No monorails. No flying cars. No hoverboards. No space stations that are home to astounding duty free shopping values. No floating screens. NO WRISTWATCH VIDEOPHONES. I swear to God, we live in the fucking Stone Age.

When I'm eighty, and on my death bed, some fuckhead will invent a hoverboard that runs on cold fusion, and I will be fucking PISSED.

Jake:

Whenever I go to someone's house who has a knife block, I always imagine like a group of robbers coming in with guns to rob the place, and I develop the ability to throw knifes with force and accuracy like Steven Seagal in Under Siege. "He's just a cook."

Knife blocks are cool because it always feels great to pull a knife out of one. I feel like I'm taking Excalibur out of the stone. CROWN MY ASS. I even pantomime having to pull mightily to draw it out. Only when no one is looking.

Whenever I have a knife in my hand, I always picture stabbing people with it. What if I took this knife to a park and stabbed some jogger with it, then ran off? How long would it take them to catch me? Five seconds? Five years? A MOTIVELESS CRIME IS A PERFECT CRIME. I also become immediately panicked that my wife will come in to give me a surprise hug just as I'm turning around with the knife in my hand, sticking out. GAHHHHHHHH!!!! There's no way that could happen. BUT WHAT IF IT DID?! Holy shit, that would be horrible. I can't point knives downward quickly enough.

Mike:

Oh, for fuck's sake.

Jay:

What's the best donut at Dunkin Donuts?

ONLY SOMEONE FROM FACKIN' PEDROIAH NATION CAN ANSWAH THAT QUESTION!!!!

I'm partial to glazed Munchkins. I could eat 500 of them. But hey, that's just my opinion. French crullers are delightful as well.

Even tougher to answer is: what's the best item in the grocery store bakery case? I go to the store at least twice a week, and that bakery case is so goddamn tempting. Apple fritters. Cookies. Krispy Kreme donuts. Muffins as big as your head. Chocolate croissants. Maple pecan long johns. Danishes. I mean, holy Jesus. How do you fight that? You ever buy a grocery store apple fritter, then take it home and nuke it for 30 seconds? You may as well have sex with a hooker bareback, it's so gratifyingly naughty.

Carey:

Do you ever have those near-death experience dreams? I had one last night and they fuck with me for a week afterwards. The night of is the worst. I'm up all night, tossing and turning knowing the villain from the dream has surely found a portal into the real world and will be looking for me to finish me off.

And the villain is always someone unrecognizable. How did your brain conjure that guy? Was he someone you saw on the bus? Is he someone you've yet to encounter? I always assume people I see in dreams are people I will meet later on. That has yet to occur. Apparently, I am not actually clairvoyant. BUT I COULD BE.

Anthony:

Lately I have been thinking about how if I could change one food item that is bad for you to be healthy what would it be. I live near a KFC and could probably eat fried chicken daily and think I would go with that since it is delicious and would be magically good for me. What would you go with?

Apart from grocery store apple fritters that have been warmed in the microwave? Cookies. All cookies. I fucking hate Panera, but they make a chocolate cookie with nuts and white chocolate chunks that I would stab my aunt to eat.

Jeff:

Is there a point in life where it's no longer socially acceptable to eat kid's cereals (aka Cap'n Crunch, or Cinnamon Toast Crunch). I live in fear of this day.

When you have kids and they grow old enough to register that CTC is fucking awesome. The second that happened in my house, my wife banished sugary cereals, to ensure the kids wouldn't spend all day begging to eat them (and they do). Thus, no more Cocoa Puffs. These kids can't go to college fast enough. I want my Crunch Berries back.

Some cereals straddle that border between fun kid's cereal and boring adult cereal. Thus, I'm allowed to keep Chocolate Chex around. Same amount of sugar as Cap'n Crunch. Kid won't eat it. VICTORY.

Pop:

What post-cooking smell lasts the longest? My answer is bacon. If I cook bacon at 7am, my kitchen will smell like bacon till like 1pm.

Women's brains in vinaigrette.

Dan:

If you could choose one current public figure to be mired in a nasty, Tiger Woods-esque sex scandal, wouldn't you go with Tony Dungy? My god, it would be glorious. You would be able to found a new religion with all the lost self-righteousness.

Pfft. There are bigger fish to fry than Dungy. Why not go with Obama (if you're a Republican) or Sarah Palin/Sean Hannity (if you're a Democrat)? Far more gratifying, depending upon your political stripes.

Or Leno. Or Jeff Zucker. Or Elizabeth Hasselbeck. Or Dick Cheney. Or Oprah. I wish terrible whoring scandals upon them all.

FavreFAIL:

Do you ever look at an area and think, "That would be a great place to have a superhero fight"? I do this all the time. Criteria for an awesome superhero fight setting is how much shit would get destroyed but so that no civilians get hurt (A-Team style). Any site that also has objects that can be used as weapons for those with super strength or other environmental hazards that you can use to vanquish your foe at the last second are a big bonus. Ideal sites have included: half-constructed stadiums, dockyards, oil refineries, and huge warehouses. The best site I've seen is along my train commute to work - on one side of the tracks there's a lumber yard with a freight train station adjacent to it, and on the other side of the tracks is an abandoned sheet metal factory.

Perfect place to have a throw-down of epic proportions for our imagined superhero selves (or even as a spectator watching). Try it if you don't already, as it turns drab settings into their own ThunderDome of ass-kickery.

Don't forget parking lots, empty barns, high school gyms, and high school football stadiums. High school footballs stadiums have lots of metal bleachers, perfect for tearing away with your super strength. Ride any train and you get a virtual tour of excellent superhero fight locales. Rail yards, abandoned factories, condemned homes… all perfect places to have the final throwdown with Galactus.

But all of those places pale in comparison to one: Cathedrals. Cathedrals are awesome for that. I went to Europe once, and I'd walk into one of those really old cathedrals, with the high ceilings and dim lights and reverence, and picture myself battling Satan and his mighty fire whip. And I totally send him through a stained glass window. FUCK AND YES, that is awesome.

Daniel:

My girlfriend and I broke up about five months ago. The only thing I miss about her is her bed. It was like I was sleeping back in the womb. I would call in sick to work and then pretend to be sick in front of her just so I could spend more time in that bed. The amount of crazy I put up with just knowing I could spend a night in that bed is staggering. I almost gave in to her moving in because of that bed. Now that we are broken up, I've spent nearly 3 grand trying to replicate her combination of bed and feather pillow top. I haven't come up with anything that comes close. I'm a moron for not getting the bed manufacturer before we broke up. Would it be too much of a dick move to attempt to get back together for a month (though it probably will stretch into two) just to find out where she got her bed, or should I just resign myself to never sleeping that well again?

Could you email her? Would that be wrong? I slept in some girl's bed at Colby once. I swear it happened. She had a featherbed, an egg crate, and eight comforters and everything. It was like sleeping in Jesus' arms. Good beds are worth going the extra mile.

Sean:

I went to the Air Force Academy, and any time we had a new peanut butter jar on our table, a freshman was forced to scream something borderline retarded ("I think it was FIRE IN THE HOLE!"), and then smash the jar into his forehead, making an awesome POP sound and launching a PB cumshot across the dining hall. Highly recommended. Although it ruined the fresh jar knifing, it was worth it for the one time I witnessed a kid smashing the bottom of the jar (instead of the side) into his face, nearly knocking himself unconscious. You're in good hands, America.

I couldn't be prouder of our troops right now.

Uhhhh… this seems grossly irresponsible

Josh:

My girlfriend had just finished he BA in psychology with a minor in social work and her first job was working with special kids at a group home. She called me on her lunch break to tell me how weird her new job was and how every kid had to wear a collar. This is important later.

She was also complaining about her supervisor and how she treated the kids, yelling at them and man handling them in a borderline physical abuse sort of way. She expressed to me that she didn't really like the job but she would stick to it.

Fast forward about 3 hours later when she calls me crying and hysterical on the phone. Between sobs and crying I found out she quit her job because her boss made her shock one of the kids. Apparently at this group home all the kids wore shock collars because their cognitive level was so low they didn't understand basic commands. How this shit was legal is beyond me, but one of the kids would not take directions to sit down for a snack.

Her boss came up to her and handed her a key fob and told her to make the kid sit down and if he didn't to push the button. She had no clue as to what the button did, so she asked. He told her it would, "make the kid listen, at least for 10 seconds and make everyone's life easier."

My girlfriend refused to do it and spent 10 minutes trying to coax the kid into the chair. Finally her supervisor came over, put the key fob in her hand and squeezed it until the kid got shocked. He then told her she was going to get written up if she refused to use the key fob again.

Now I got a sick sense of humor, but holy shit is that wrong or what? It was a privately funded place and I think it got shut down a few years ago because one of the staff was sexually abusing some of the kids.

And now a handful of stories from the quickserve industry

Jeff:

I worked off and on for a pizzeria back home during high school and college run by a sheisty Italian dude who was fond of telling the other guys and me stories about how he taught a goat to blow him 2-3 times a day when he was our age.

My boss LOVED hiring illegal immigrants, then paying them $2/hour to make pizza (a job where a normal citizen can make up to 50g a year.) He would hire 2-4 high school kids at a time to work the register, since we could speak English and didn't threaten his 4th grade education. And he claimed $60,000 in taxable income on a restaurant that routinely netted north of 200k during the time I worked there. Oh, and he's fathered at least four kids by three different women.

Back to the narrative. Scene of the crime: A busy Monday night in June a few years back, where the shop's half-priced special drew gobs of local high school-jock types. My boss, who spent most of each night searching for snuff porn and soccer scores on his dinky laptop (thus making one of the two registers inoperable by unplugging it) is pissed that my coworker is moving slowly (since he has to run tabs on a handheld calculator.) My boss took periodic breaks every ten minutes or so to berate the kid (16 at the time) for moving slowly, screaming a garbled mix of Italian, Spanish and Soprano-ese English at the kid in front of customers, many of whom were this kid's classmates.

This goes on throughout the two-hour business rush. As things are winding down, my boss takes the kid behind the sandwich counter (my other coworker and I escaped to sweep the floor) and starts screaming at him again. The kid snaps a little, telling my boss that if the register had been free, there wouldn't have been a problem.

At that point, my boss flips out like nothing I've ever seen. He starts in again, first in Italian, then a little Spanish, before crescendoing in a sociopathic rage by asking the kid, "Are you calling me a fucking LIAR!?!?!" With that, my boss takes his own bare hand and slams it down on the flat grill, which was heated to a solid 350 degrees, and holds it for a solid ten seconds, breathing louder and louder while turning beat red. Everyone's left the area but the kid in front of him, who's peeing himself at this point. My boss takes his hand off, shoves it in the kids face, and goes, "WELL!?!?! MY HAND STAYED ON THAT GRILL WITHOUT BURNING!!!! AND YOU CALL ME A LIAR?!?!?! FUCK YOU!!! GET OUT OF MY PIZZERIA!!!"

The kid sprinted through the doors, never to return (leaving behind approx. $200 in unclaimed paychecks, no small sum for a high schooler.) And I drove my boss to the hospital about five minutes after he left, since he had suffered third-degree burns.

Those crackers have edges, you know

Molly:

I used to work at a local pizza place. My manager was the owner's middle-aged son who looked like a younger Danny Devito, including the permanent upper lip sweat. If he's reading this, it's called hyperhidrosis and it's very treatable. Get that shit fixed.

To this day, I've never met a bigger asshole. He only hired teenage girls to work up front as cashiers. On afternoons when there were no customers, this slimeball would corner us in the back and tell dirty jokes. "Have you heard the one about the old broad who slipped Viagra in her husband's coffee? She can't ever show her face in Starbuck's again!" Gross. The story that takes the cake though, happened before I was hired. Apparently, one chaotic Friday night an old women became fed up with his bullshit (his idea of customer service? "Get the fuck out of my restaurant"). She chucked a handful of Ritz crackers at him. He called the police, and pressed charges against her. For throwing crackers. Not even Mark Sanchez displays such poise.

Every Hardees fry boss gets a taste of the skim

Christian:

During high school, I got my first real job at McDonalds when I was 15. It was a decent job and decent money for someone that age. After working there for about a year, I quit to go work at Hardees with a couple of my best friends. A couple of months into my tenure at Hardees, the GM came up to me one evening and told me that my register had come up short a few times the previous two weeks for a total of about $100. She then told me that if it happened again, that I would be fired. Now, I have never once, or ever will, claim to be a genius, but I was an honors student who went on to graduate college. This has to put me in at least the 90th percentile of fast food workers as far as intelligence goes, so I was in shock that I could make such a mistake multiple times.

Cut to the next day I worked and the GM tells me that it happened again and I was fired. I was in such disbelief that I didn't even go home, I just sat down at a table trying to figure out what the hell I was doing wrong. After about 20 minutes, the GM came out to talk to me and told me that she would give me one more chance. I never spoke her again and about 4 weeks later, SHE WAS FIRED FOR STEALING MONEY FROM THE STORE! It turns out that she was using me as a scapegoat for her thievery.

A couple of months later, another manager at the store decided to take $600 from the safe, go next door to the gas station, play some video poker, win, keep the profit and return the money without anyone knowing. He was arrested the following morning after he surprisingly lost all $600.

JG:

Super Bowl weekend, I rolled up to a bar for a friend's birthday party. While there, I met an inviting temptress who hit it off with me right away. She looked spectacular, yet I was floored when she revealed to me she was 39. I'm 27, so it's safe to say the cougar hunt was on.

I brought my A-game and scored the digits, which led to much flirting and late night phone calls. We finally arranged to meet this past Saturday (l'm sending this e-mail the day after while it's still fresh in my mind). I met her out a swanky lounge, downed a couple scotches, and we arranged to drop off my car back at my place en route to our next drinking destination.

When we got back to my place, I lit a couple scented candles on my nightstand to set the mood and we were off to the races, passionately engaging in rough yet abbreviated foreplay, leading to the ultimate prize. After 20 minutes or so, it became quite hot but I noticed a foul stench building in the bedroom. She then let out a shriek (of joy? pleasure? no ... definitely not) and I looked to my right. I saw thick columns of white smoke and scorched fabric pieces floating about. MY BED WAS ON FUCKING FIRE.

In our intense stripdown, we accidentally tossed a pillow on top of the candle and her sweater on top of that, leaving a trail of scorched fabric to the bedsheets and blazing debris all over the room. I quickly beat the pillow down to put it out, threw it in the sink, and ran her sweater under cold water. I ended up with blisters and burns on my right hand, where I attempted to transport the blaze away from the love nest.

After spending some time attempting to rebottle that magic, it became clear that getting back in the mood after your bedroom is burning is quite like trying to sweep milk back into its carton.

"I think I better go," she said.

I attached a picture of the scorched pillow. Hope you can use it.

Aaron:

Junior year of high school, and I've just gotten my driving privileges which I assumed meant a completely new world of hookup opportunities. There's a girl in the senior class with a smoking body that I had been flirting pretty hardcore at school with but never gotten past second base with because the makeout sessions were always occuring in a stairwell or the band room. She agrees to go out on a date to the movies. I'll never forget it, because it was the weekend "Speed" came out, which I was dying to see, but she wanted to go see "When a Man Loves a Woman." Fine, I think, sounds like a love story/romantic comedy - that can only increase my chances of hooking up, right?

We are one of only three couples in the entire theatre, and we sit on the very back row. Her hand is in my crotch before the previews are over. A few minutes into the movie, we realize that it is no love story, but an emotional drama about alcoholism. Turns out the girl's father was an alcoholic, as was her first stepdad, and let's just say neither were ideal fathers. It suffices to say that my crotch went the rest of the movie unmolested. We get back in my car so I can drive her back to her car. As we sit there, she's telling me the story about how she can never trust men because her mother's husbands were such scum. She's getting really worked up, and I'm now more worried about her lashing out at me than I am getting her top off. Just as her rant is reaching a crescendo, she reaches in her purse, and starts to pull out something shiny. Thinking is must be a gun to off me right then and there, I reach for me door handle, slip the door open, and almost decapitate myself trying to leave my vehicle before the automatic seatbelt went back (this is 93/94ish, remember). Turns out she was just pulling out her keys. Yep, first date, and also last date.

I AM NOT YOUR PROBLEM TO SOLVE!!!!

Justin:

I was a senior in high school and had a new girlfriend that was a junior. So down stairs in my sex basement one afternoon after school we are hitting it hot and sloppy. Now, my parents weren't supposed to get home for a couple of hours from work and we had the house all to ourselves, so we decided that completely naked basement sex was the way to go. Now my couch that housed all of this debauchery was facing the opposite wall from the stairs that led down to the basement. As I unassumingly was being serviced my girlfriend, the time that I was about to spooge was quickly arriving. My Dad had made his way down the stairs to the back of the couch without our knowledge. I was at that pivotal point of "orgasmic point of no return". My father witnessing the act, soon starts to make his presence known. It went a little something like this.

Dad: HEY!! What is going on?

Me: Oh, Shit!!

(Meanwhile my girlfriend, on her knees, freezes, and looks up at my Dad and then, BLAM!!!! 3 ropes of sticky goo hit her right on the chin like an early 90's Peter North film)

Dad: Get Up!!!! Get your clothes on. Get upstairs!! Get your clothes on!!!

Me: Get the hell outta here!!!

Her: Oh, My god, get me a tissue!!!

Me: Dad, GO AWAY!!!!!!

My Dad leaves the scene and I get all of my clothes on and go upstairs to talk about what the fuck had just happened. He was outside smoking a cigarette; here is all that was ever spoken of the incident.

Me: Do you want to talk about this?

Dad: (Drag of cigarette)

Dad: I don't need you…

Dad: (Exhale of cigarette)

Dad: ..havin' sex…

Dad: (Drag of cigarette)

Dad: …in my basement.

Dad: (Exhale of cigarette)

Me: Deal.

That happened 10 years ago and nothing was ever mentioned to my mother or the girlfriends' parents or anything. He just kept it bottled up for a decade, to date. I told that story to a bunch of friends and sisters and brother-in-laws and my groomsmen (who have heard it before) toward the end of the reception at my wedding recently (did not marry girl in question). As I had about 15-20 people crowded around me while I was telling this story my dad walks up behind me as soon as I am demonstrating the money shot portion of the story. He recognized the situation and just smiled.

You should totally start a Twitter feed: Cocks My Dad Blocks. It'll be a CBS sitcom within five months.

Brian:

Things are going well and we end up going back to her room.

I try to escalate things, but oh wait she wants a fucking massage.

No joke, I gave this woman a 45-minute massage. I was sweating the whole time and could barely feel my fingers, forearm muscles, etc. afterward. After that, she went to bed.

That is horrible. Am I the only person who nearly dies of exhaustion after seven seconds of giving someone a massage? It's horrible, backbreaking labor, and trying to get a decent angle to give someone a massage while you are both lying down is awkward and painful. You massage lovers are a scourge.

Robert:

So we are on her bed and just going at it. Well I decide that I want to flip her over and do it doggie style. Not having my bearings all set due to massive amounts of Irish Whiskey, I stumble and fall off the bed. That wouldn't be so bad normally, except for the fact that I landed on the space heater, which was set to high. Because I had drank so much, my reaction time to get off the heater wasn't as lickety split as I would have liked it, and I ended up getting severe burns on my back and side. After swearing and putting some lotion on the burns, I passed out with out even finishing sex. I woke up in the morning in terrible pain. I had passed out on my side and the burns had oozed into her sheets and then the ooze/blood/puss had dried and the sheets were stuck to my skin.

It was so bad and in such and awkward spot on my back and side that I actually had to ask her to pull them off. She was furious that I had ruined her sheets. I went to my car and grabbed my check book which I kept in case of emergencies and quickly wrote her a check for 100 dollars to cover the sheets.

I still have scars on my back and side from where I got burned by that damned space heater.

It bones like burning!

I have a serious recurring problem. Once a month or so, I will walk into a door before I have opened it. I go to a door, I grab the knob, and I begin pushing the door in before I have begun twisting the knob. Sometimes, I'll give the door full-on shoulder check before I have to back off, twist the knob, and then enter the fucking door like a normal, non-retarded human being.

This must have to do with male impatience. I am horribly impatient. I have to eat NOW. I have to drink all these drinks VERY QUICKLY, so I can be drunk immediately. Ooh! A girl! I have to go beat off THIS INSTANT! And now, it's gotten to the point where I can't even operate a door properly. I need help.

Onto your letters.

Mike:

On Ash Wednesday all these people I know for a fact are most likely laying in bed hung-over on a typical Sunday, walk around campus broadcasting that they went to church for once. Congrats on your moral superiority you self-righteous, phony bastards. Just know that, like Han Solo on Hoth, "I'll see you in hell."

When I worked in New York, a lot of people did the Ash Wednesday thing, but it was usually the old ladies who worked in payroll and stuff like that. And they really WERE good Catholics. These were the kind of people who would have framed photos of both Jesus and their dog sitting on their desk. And always a Bible verse printed out somewhere. All offices have ladies like that. You could work at Pixar and there'd be a lady like that in Human Resources.

So I'd stumble in, all hung over from a night of Tuesday drinking – Tuesday is the night you really have no excuse to drink, but you do anyway – and then I'm bombarded in the elevator with all these little old ladies with the mark of Jesus on their head, or whatever it is. (For some reason, I had never seen this practice until I was out of college. I assumed, initially, that everyone had been working on their carburetor that morning. Someone at work explained it in full for me.) Always made me feel guilty, which is bullshit. Catholicism is about making YOURSELF feel guilty, not others. Fuckers.

I saw one lady in the office who was a bit on the heavy side, and therefore quite sweaty. I saw the Ash Wednesday smudge started to dribble down her head. And it made me wonder about the rules of the smudge. If you wipe part of it off, do you go to Hell? You probably do. I'm too lazy to look it up. I'd far rather just make a convenient stereotype.

TSR:

When filling up their cars at a gas station, guys love to take out the squeegee and clean their windshields, rear windows, side windows, side mirrors, bumpers - anything they can get in before the gas is through pumping. When doing this, we act like we're attendants at a full-service station, or a fucking pit crew - making sure that every drop of soapy water is scraped from the glass and wiped clean from the squeegee. We get off on that shit, while our wives are in the car pointing to their watches or something.

However, if your wife tells you to use the fucking bathroom squeegee on the tile after a shower, we either groan and give it a half-assed swipe, or just don't do it at all.

That's because you have to bend down or get on your knees to do it. I'm happy to do any chore in which I can stand up straight. Washing dishes? Fine. Getting gas? Fine. The gas pump feels kinda like I'm pressing a trigger, and that rules. And squeegeeing the car makes me feel like a homeless wino, and I've always secretly yearned to be a homeless wino.

But a chore becomes instantly horrible if I have to bed into some kind of uncomfortable position. Take out the trash? No problem. Get a replacement garbage bag from under the sink, with the box tucked squarely way back in back of the cabinet? FUCK YOU.

I adore my wife, but she has a delightful habit of taking any food item I enjoy and placing in the most remote area of the fridge or cabinet. That bag of pepperoni I bought? Lowest shelf in the fridge, all the way back. Are you fucking kidding me? You may as well put it in a fucking wishing well. I'm never getting to that.

Two other notes about chores: You squeegee the car because it was your idea. It's not really a chore. It's something fun to do while you wait. No one is making you do it, and that's key. Once someone TELLS you to do it, it blows. That's just a fact.

Lastly: I get unreasonably pissed when told to do a chore well after I am under the impression that the day's chores are over. I spend the day looking after the kids. I cook. I clean. I do what is required. I eat, then go to sit in my chair to watch TV. Once I am in the chair, that's it for me for the night. The only reason I should be getting out of that chair is for food, the toilet, or to go to bed. If I am surprised with a chore at this time – "Oh Drew, you have to go clean the gutters" – I react with astonishing hostility. Just like when your boss gives you work at 5PM on a Friday. People should know better. Do not give work to people when they have settled down into their enjoyment. It's FUCKED.

One aside about gas: Fuck you to any gas pump that doesn't have a little lock thing on the pump. I like locking the pump and then going inside to grab a soda while the gas tank fills. I cannot do that if the lock isn't there, or if it's not functional. Sometimes, you get one that isn't functional, and that is ass.

Chris:

My fiancee makes amazing Guacamole, but it leads to the following problem: she only makes one bowl of it, which we then share. The issue is, I like to utilize small amounts of Guac on each chip in order to maximize the amount of time I get to enjoy the sweet green stuff, while she likes to heap massive amounts on each chip, in an effort to eat less chips (which, as a fatass, I find laughable). This drives me crazy as I always end up with the short end of the Guac stick, and so lately I have been separating the Guac into two equally-sized bowls once she's made it, in an effort to preserve my fair share. She thinks this qualifies as me being an asshole and says I "must have failed sharing in Kindergarten", but on the contrary, I think it's her poor sharing that's lead to the whole situation.

Also, I'm a twin (fraternal) and grew up fighting him over everything, so this may play a small part, but I doubt it.

Well, the obvious solution here is for her to make MORE guac. The other solution? Ask her the recipe, and then begin making it yourself. As head chef of the household, you are in full control of when that guacamole will be presented for consumption. I cook for my wife because it allows me the freedom to eat half of what I've made before it even reaches the table.

Furthermore, the strategy of using less guac per chip is fatally flawed. It's guacamole. All guac is first come, first serve. You must heap as much guac onto on chip as humanly possible (as your fiancée does), only do it at a much faster rate. Think guacamole isn't a race? IT IS. The faster you eat, the more you get. That's how it works. And it's a crucial strategy to exploit when dealing with guacamole nachos, pizza, wings, and other shared food. Do not hesitate. Don't even fucking chew. You inhale that shit until there's nothing left for her. That's what I do.

If you were out to eat with your guy friends at a Mexican restaurant, and you ordered guacamole for all to share, would you get pissed at your friends for digging in too quickly? FUCK AND NO. That guac is chum, and you are the sharks. ATTACK ATTACK ATTACK. Never play defense with appetizers.

Tim:

As part of my job application process I had to go through a background check which required fingerprinting. In order to be fingerprinted I went to my local police headquarters. I was given a guest pass and escorted to the back. Immediately after being buzzed in, I imagined myself having been falsely arrested by a crooked cop and desperately needing to escape. I began glancing around looking for doors, windows, or stairways to make my escape. I pictured grabbing the nearest cop's gun or trying to break into the armory. In hindsight, I'm lucky I was able to get my fingerprints done without getting tazed.

Oh, you have no idea how many times I've imagined myself being put in the box and interrogated for a crime I didn't commit. It wasn't me! Sometimes I cry. Sometimes I get hostile. Sometimes I say, "Fuck you. Give me my lawyer." Sometimes, I'm GUILTY, and I go all Hannibal Lecter on the cop with my crazy mind games. "Tell me, Officer Jenkins, where were you born? Just making conversation… OR AM I?!!"

Then I'll flip it. I'm the cop, and some no good fucker is in the box, stonewalling me, and then I just go all Bud White on that ass.

Sometimes, when I'm alone in the car, or in my shower, I'll just start playing out entire scenes from movies like "LA Confidential" in my head. I'll recite all the dialogue. "He said they call you Sugar, because you gave it out… SO SWEET."

I do this with countless movies. Left alone…. BOOM! I'm right in the scene. I do this with the Walken-Hopper scene in "True Romance" endlessly. And I'm always Walken. "Do you know who I am… Mr. Worley? I'm the Antichrist." Sometimes the wife will come in from another room when I do this.

WIFE: Did you say something?

ME: Me? Nope. Nothing here!

WIFE: Okay. (leaves)

ME: "You know… Sicilians are great liars. BEST IN THE WORLD."

Aaron:

You know the one thing I hate about fries at the fast food joints? You never know if you are getting fresh out of the oil fries, or the sitting under the hot lamp for an hour soggy nastiness.

Sure you do. The frialator is always located to the left or right side of the main counter. You can usually see the fry cook emptying the frialator, salting the fries, and then filling the containers with that awesome fry shovel. Sometimes, there's one leftover, old container of fries still there when you order, and they'll try and pass that shit off to you. DON'T FUCKING TAKE THAT SHIT. Speak up, people. "I want THOSE fries." It's totally worth the dirty looks.

Jon:

When you are alone in a public bathroom at the urinal, and someone else walks in. I can't help but think they may try to kill me. I always envision myself having to fight them off when they try to kill me. I always win with my suddenly newfound ninja karate moves that I see in the movies.

Footsteps are the reason. On the hard tile, footsteps get amplified, and sound of them becomes much more menacing. I am trained by movies to know that someone who makes loud footsteps is coming to kill the fuck out of me. One reader this week (Jason) wrote in to note his work bathroom is located at the end of a very long corridor. So he hears the footsteps of another person coming from miles away. He goes on:

Although you could sit outside bathroom for 8 hours and never see a soul, the second I sit down I always hear one of the hallway doors being opened and slow loud footsteps banging down the corridor like some kind of B-movie villain. I always hope that they are going to a different door in the hallway but I know that's not true. I always imagine an axe head coming through the door at this point and wishing that they let my finish before the bloodbath. Then they are gone, slowly stomping away, possibly to a teen summer camp or a sorority house.

This is horrible. I desperately wish my life had a foley editor, and that I could tell the foley editor to turn down various sounds that cause me distress, like loud footsteps, baby screams, and Michelle Tafoya's voice. (NOTE: I actually have control to turn down the latter, and I do so).

Alan:

Today I found out about a beer with 41% ABV. BrewDog created the beer mostly because one of their competitors brewed a 40% ABV beer. The company also brews a 32% ABV beer called "Tactical Nuclear Penguin." After the brewery was criticized for brewing to strong of beers by alcohol awareness groups, they responded with "Nanny State" a 1.1% ABV. No question here, just more of a public service announcement for any beer enthusiasts on Deadspin.

I will drink this beer. Here's a video detailing more about Tactical Nuclear Penguin.

Eamon:

I love seeing how far away I can stand from the cart station in the grocery sore lot and still roll the cart into the station (for more experienced "cart rollers" try experimenting with different angles and speeds). It's so fun. The noise it makes when it gets into the cart station is so loud everyone in the parking lot either immediately turns to see the commotion or ducks for cover, then they realize it was me and they get nice and pissed (also you do not have to walk your lazy ass all the way to the station). Also the noise it hits when I miss and hit a car, CAR ALARM!

Couldn't agree more. Who walks all the way up to the station? That's for suckers. It's a cart. It was BORN TO FUCKING ROLL. You're doing the cart a disservice if you just limply place it in the station like a fucking ponce. Plus, most of those stations have giant plastic bumpers on the sides. You have an enormous margin for error. I push the fucker as hard as I can (DREW STRONG!), and I make it a point of trying to push it hard enough so that the cart will actually insert itself into the row of carts parked inside. Sometimes, I get it to go halfway in. Like sinking a full court shot.

Joe:

My gym posts clearly that you are to wear swimming trunks/towels while in the sauna or steam room, yet about 70% of the users (mostly old, fatter than me, saggy nutted men) are always in there buck-ass naked. Wearing trunks, I feel like the a-hole. Am I? I don't care either way, just want some consistency here.

Well look, open nakedness in gym locker rooms and saunas is a problem that will never go away. But there are three places where posted rules should never be read and should routinely be ignored: Beaches, pools, and gyms. Ever read pool rules? "Always shower before entering the pool." Pfft. NO FUCKING CHANCE, ASSHOLES. I'm going in there dry and treating that pool like my own personal sponge bath. Same with gyms. Oh sure, I'm only supposed to be on the elliptical for half an hour during peak hours. This is why I go for 15 minutes, then reset the console and punch in an extra thirty minutes. You'll never know I hogged the equipment! MWAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

I have a rule about saunas and steam baths at my gym (caveat: it's not a big gym). If someone else is in there, I never go in. If I go in, and some naked guy decides to "join" me, I leave. Immediately. I'd just as soon share a shitter with a guy than a sauna.

Brad:

What the fuck is up with the packets of jelly at restaurants? By the time I've put jelly on two pieces of toast a small city has been erected out of plastic on the table.

It's horrible, and there are no signs of it abating. At least they're redesigning ketchup packets. But the jelly packet problem has been routinely ignored. It's like half a pat of butter, if that. That's crazy. I need an enormous glob of jam on my toast, enough to make it drip over every side after the initial bite. That's what toast is for: it's a delivery system for as much jam as you can handle.

Sometimes, at nice hotels, they give you those little personalized jars of jam. Those are somewhat bigger, and get bonus points for cuteness. Aw, look! LITTLE JAR! I got one once that was filled with honey. GOOD honey. The kind that's opaque. I licked it clean.

At home, I eat jam right out of the jar. The wife finds that practice repulsive. Whatever. That Four Fruit preserve is irresistible.

Tom:

Were you aware that there's an Austrian luger named Manuel Pfister?

Well, when you think about it, all fisting is manual. OR IS IT?!

Steven:

I went out last Saturday night for a friend's going-away party, drank about 10 hurricanes and of course, being the charming blacked out human being I am, hit on every female everywhere I went. These females consisted of my friend's cousins, close friends, ex's and co-workers. I creeped them all out. Do I owe him an apology? It's not like this was the first time he's seen it, nor will it be the last.

No apology required. You should only have to say sorry if it's his sister or mom. Otherwise, it's all fair game. You were drunk and trying to get laid. You're going to turn over every stone you come across. He knows that.

Andy:

WHY THE FUCK DO WOMEN NEVER BURY THE TAMPON WRAPPER?!

Show of dominance. Don't let her one-up you. Throw away your nutrag on top of it. YOU LET HER KNOW WHO'S REALLY IN CHARGE OF THIS WASTEPAPER BASKET.

Richard:

While it may seem like leaving your cart in random parts of the parking lot is a dick move, it is actually one of the best things you can do for the poor grunts working the registers and bagging. Cart round up is an opportunity to leave the monotony of what you are doing and take a FREE break. You want to milk that shit for all it's worth. I didn't think those people were assholes. I loved them. I just couldn't let the boss know our little secret.

Well, that's all the permission I need. I'm never putting away my fucking cart again!

Dan:

I am usually an after lunch shitter, but every now and then the urge strikes me in the morning. There is nothing better than going into the bathroom at my work and finding the stall that has the toilet seat up and the blue cleaning liquid still in the bowl. VIRGIN TOILET!!!! HELL YEAH!!!!

Feels like you've already got the day won when that happens. Sometimes, I would see that the bathroom was being cleaned. I counted down the minutes for that janitor to leave so I could immediately go and ruin their handiwork.

Olaf:

When I was a little kid, I would hear other kids on the bus or playground or whatever refer to "butt sex". I had no one to explain this "butt sex" to me so I just assumed that the way it worked was that a boy and a girl would get naked and get on their hands and knees. They would then just slam their naked butts into each other. I'm sure you can imagine my surprise some years later when I realized what butt sex actually involved.

Well, butt slapping is a form of affection among Eskimos. It's true. Look it up. (NOTE: Don't look it up.)

I had many sexual misconceptions as a child. I wrote this elsewhere, but at sleepover camp, there was a kid who explained to me what the word pussy meant.

HIM: Do you even know what pussy means?

ME: Yeah, it means a wussy.

HIM: No. It means a girl's VAGINA. And this is what it looks like (opens copy of Velvet, points to vagina)

ME: Oh, wow.

I also learned at camp that women cannot receive blowjobs. Who knew?

When I was a kid, I asked where babies come from. I was told that a hole opened up on the woman's body and the man placed his "seed" there. I asked where this hole was. I was told, "Kinda near the woman's leg." Thus, for most of elementary school, I carried around the misconception that one day, a woman would open up a hole in her thigh (which I visualized as a small magic portal, like the kind that whisked you away to wherever Flash Gordon lived). Then, as the man, I would take a packet of seeds. Literal seeds, like the kind you use to grow tomatoes. And then I would deposit those seeds into the woman's leg. And then a baby would sprout out of her, presumably with enough watering, sunlight, and fertilizer. I was WAY off.

Austin:

You have some advertising background, so what's the deal with the Geico Powersports ads? No British gecko, no cavemen, no poor attempt at comedy whatsoever - just middle-aged men slowly riding those lame cruiser motorcycles with soft rock in the background. Why the disparity?

Because Powersports is a whole other division of Geico, which means it has its own little fiefdom within the company. Thus, it has its own brand manager, presumably someone who fucking hates fun and creative advertising. Most ad agencies, when confronted with stubborn subdivisions like this, cut their losses and do whatever that client wants, because they still have creative freedom in other places on the same account. So there you go.

HALFTIME!

Connor:

RE: Open Range laws, most western states have open range laws. In fact, fences are typically meant to keep other people's animals out of your shit, rather than your animals in. Even better, if you're in an open range state and hit a cow? You have to pay the owner for the loss.

That's outrageous! What does a cow cost? Two grand? A dowry on a new bride? That's crap. If I have to pay for that fucker, the farmer better have to butcher it and send me 500 lbs. of frozen beef for me to do with as I please.

Brooks:

Do you ever think about how dirty your belts are? I've been wearing the same black leather belt to work for the last 4 years and I have never washed it, despite touching the thing after every glorious poop…before I wash my hands. I could really care less.

Nor I. I'm sure my belt buckle as filthy as keys or money. Like Brooks, I have worn the same belt every day now for roughly seven years. It has conformed to my body, which disturbs me. I take it out, and part of the belt that supports my FUPA has clearly been distended, causing the entire belt to warp and curve. It's a constant reminder to me that I am oddly shaped. But it beats buying a new belt.

I have received other belts as gifts over the past few years. I have never changed belts. The other belts sit in my closet unworn, to be used only for whipping my kids, should I ever have the good fortune of getting to do such a thing. Why change belts? It's pointless.

From time to time, you'll see preppy assholes rock belts that have little whale of lacrosse sticks on them. Those belts are gay.

Adam:

Is it weird that I can't wait for scientists to invent true-to-life androids? And not the ones that have some fleshy texture on top and then a metal skeleton underneath, but real-life, pulpy ones? I know I would buy one of these things only so I could come home from a long day of work and beat the ever-loving-shit out of it. I would use chair legs, retractable batons, maybe even a baseball bat.

Did this just get you excited for these androids? You're lying if you say "no"

Well, I only get excited for androids for the whole sexbot thing. I mean, sex is the most important thing when it comes to robot design. You don't want to pay all this money for a sexbot and then take it home and break it. Then you couldn't fuck it, and that would be tragic.

If they ever made robots you could both fuck and abuse, that would become problematic. I mean, wouldn't that be the most abusive relationship in history? YOU STUPID FUCKING ROBOT. I'LL FUCKING CHOKE YOU. Oh, baby. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you that bad. Let's make up…

(takes out space lube)

Tom:

I distinctly remember my D.A.R.E. officer telling our class about how he broke a kid's arm because he felt a tug on his holster while walking through the school hallway between class. Out of instinct, WHAM, elbow through the forearm. Probably shouldn't touch a cop's gun.

Pfft. That cop was just grandstanding. Thinks he's all high karate and shit. He just wanted to scare you so you wouldn't do it. I bet you could get away with taking a cop's gun and going joyshooting with it. DO IT. YOU KNOW YOU WANT TO.

Hap:

EVER HAD A BOIL? I did.

It was in my armpit - a nasty golfball-sized lump filled with pus and blood and godknowswhatelse. I'm not sure how it started, but I know how it ended - with me lying on my back with my armpit open as my doc cut an incision into the boil and then pressed down on it with all of his considerable weight, to force the evilness out. I've never been in more excruciating pain in my life (the multiple arms, fingers, and ribs I've broken wouldn't add up to 5% of this pain). Oh, and when it reformed a week later (the Terminator of boils), I had to go back in for another incision and squeeze, only this time it was even worse since I knew the hell I was in for.

I did have a boil once in school. It was on my leg, and it had to be lanced. Before I had this done medically, I tried numerous times to pop it myself, like it was a zit. I stuck a paperclip in it a few times. But it wasn't a zit. It had the diameter of a York Peppermint Pattie, and it was revolting.

Boils are terrible because the main reason you get them is because you are unclean. So when you tell someone you have a boil, you're basically announcing you are fucking filthy, and that you never shower, and that you probably just ate that donut after you took a poop and didn't wash your hands.

Phintastic:

Although I use online bill pay for just about everything, there are the occasional random bills that I must pay with a check. When I happen to pay one of those late, I will write a date on the check that is before the bill's due date, hoping that the person on the other end might think, "Hey, he wrote the check before it was due, perhaps the post office screwed up. Maybe I won't charge him a late fee." Is this totally irrational optimism on my part?

Yes, but I also do that. Because I freelance, I pay taxes on a quarterly basis. That means I send the IRS a check four times a year. Sometimes I am late, so I'll just write a date from four weeks earlier on the check and then mail it in. Probably unwise.

The reason I don't file taxes by e-File is because the government charges you for it. Which is fucking retarded. I'm saving you people time and money by filing digitally, and you want to charge me for it? EAT HOG.

Farthammer:

I am thinking of 3 specific people at my gym who I see all the time. Whether it is while they are on the treadmill, or in between sets; they insist on shadowboxing. And they make a big spectacle of it, too. Like they need to let everyone know how badass they are. Why does my gym have shadowboxers?

I don't know. And the gym rules clearly forbid shadowboxing. Why doesn't anyone listen?

Mike:

Don't dismiss your fears of shopping cart theft. It's happened to me twice.

I had my cart stolen at Home Depot when I was standing two feet away. I took it back without incident, but to be fair, you can't trust anyone at a Home Depot. Contractors treat that store like it's lord of the flies.

Yeah, Home Depot is fucking anarchy. It's this uneasy mix of contractors buying 100-lb. slabs of oak dental molding or whatever the fuck, and shithead husbands like me who are wandering around the store, just looking for someone to help them find the fucking dimmer switches. There is NO ONE in that fucking store to help you, and thus the rules of civilized society are immediately tossed out the window. People get very pushy in a Home Depot. Also, Arthur Blank looks like a 1940's film noir villain.

I particularly enjoy people at Home Depot who get a cart, put a 40-foot long piece of lumber in that cart, and then wheel that cart around freely, without caring if that protruding lumber nails you in the fucking face like the boom of a sailboat coming about. Lady, you have a fucking jousting lance in your cart. Be aware of it.

Corey:

Do you ever get to the bottom of your underwear drawer only to find the pair of boxers, underwear, what have you, that you absolutely despise? The pair that your balls beg you not to wear.

Yes, and I always wear them because I'm too lazy to do a load of whites. And they're always ill fitting. Very tight in the crotch. Or they grip my thighs like fucking bike shorts. Or they're holiday boxers, and therefore out of season. It's horrible when you have to go through the day wearing ill-fitting boxers.

Cam:

I have this issue when I'm wearing sweatpants and go to pee. I do my business, but some always dribbling down my leg when I put it back inside. After the first couple times, I started waiting an extra few seconds, giving it an extra few shakes, but it keeps fucking happening. I talked to my buddy and he said he had the same problem. Maybe we're just morons, or maybe this is an epidemic. Does this happen to you, or anyone else for that matter? There has to be more than 2 guys out there with this problem.

No, happens to me all the time. And it's not exclusive to sweatpants. A full twenty percent of my urine ends up in the taint of my boxers, and there's nothing I can do about it. I'll just sit there and shake and shake and shake, then I go to put my dick back in and WHOA! On goes the faucet. Then my boxers are wet. There's fucking stain on my pants. I have piss swampass. It's a disaster.

Sometimes, I'll walk out of the bathroom, feel my dick about to leak, and quickly jam hands in hand in my pants to clamp my dick. Then I'll run back in to release my piss into the toilet. My old lady has seen me do this. It never fails to baffle her. I really wish I had a working body.

Jacob:

What's the best cracker? How I break it down, Club Crackers are the best by themselves (I've eaten damn near an entire box of these in one sitting plain), Ritz are the best with Peanut Butter, Triscuits take top marks with cheese, saltines are best with soup, and the best all around. Wheat Thins are fucking terrible though, and by far the worst.

Whoa hey, what's with the Wheat Thin hate? I could easily plow through a box of Wheat Thins. They're fine by me.

Also, don't forget Barnum's animal crackers. Those are the world's finest crackers because they are actually shortbread cookies in disguise, and the fact that they are labeled crackers makes them sound like they're a more acceptable snack. It's one of the great hoaxes in cracker branding history.

Also, I prefer oyster crackers with soup to saltines, because they require no crumbling and shit. AND THEY AHHHH SO GOOD IN MY FACKING CHOWDAHHHHHH!!!

Otherwise, I'm down with Triscuits. I fucking love Triscuits. But Original Triscuits. Not the flavored ones. Those taste like cancer.

Kurt:

On each leg of my daily commute, I'm good for 3 or 4 instances of slowing down to let someone merge in front of me. Is that too many? Too few? I know that following the golden rule in traffic would be good for everyone, but you just can't do it every time. Also, what are your thoughts on the "thank you" wave when someone lets you merge? I only do it if I feel the other driver really made an effort. If there's already enough space in front of them, they don't deserve my raised hand.

I don't think that's too many. Sounds like you are a kind and considerate driver. Far more so than I. Here in Maryland, whenever I slow down to allow someone to merge, the retard merging will go THE EXACT SAME FUCKING SPEED AS ME. Hey fuckhead, I'm slowing down for you as a courtesy. Can't you take a fucking hint? Speed up and get in fucking front of me.

Other DC drivers are also all too happy to blow right by you as you're attempting to merge onto a road or highway and the lane in front of you is running out, thus forcing you to nearly drive into a fucking barrier because they didn't let you in. Most of these people are on the phone texting at the time. It's fun.

However, there is such a thing as being too nice of a driver. I live off a very crowded thoroughfare, and there's a hospital (Navy Med) that empties onto the road. The road gets backed up, and many drivers will exacerbate the problem by stopping at the hospital's driveway and letting car after car in to the mess. Thus, the road never moves. FUCKHEADS. You let one car in, and then you go.

Wide Write:

Is it just me, or do your t-shirts feel like FUCKING BEACH TOWELS compared to your wife's postage stamps when the laundry comes out of the dryer? I can't decide whether to feel:

A) Sheer horror at the difference between our sizes?
B) Extreme pride because that's just how much of a MAN I am!
C) Extremely grateful that I'm dating such a lithe and fit woman.

It's terrible, because one pair of my jeans equals the total mass of, like, ninety of her fucking tops. My wife will come up with a basket of laundry and throw it on the bed to fold and go, "It's all your crap." And it's not! It's just that I have four items in there, and they occupy 90% of the load's volume. It's not my fault you wear midget clothes, lady.

Trent:

I'm sure you're familiar with the "courtesy sniff" concept. Guys smell something nasty, then say, "Dude, you've GOT to smell this". In 99.97% of cases, no matter what alarm bells go off in your head, you smell it. And it's horrible. And then the next guy, who saw you dry heave, will also smell it.

Also works for tasting things. Someone next to me will eat something, and then say, "I think this is bad. Here. You taste it." And I do! Why did I do that? If you suspected it was rotten, it was probably rotten.

Dirk:

We share similar tastes in that I will only eat pickles if they are placed strategically on a McDonald's hamburger. However, one day my girlfriend's sister pulled out a can of Pringles Extreme: Screamin' Dill Pickle flavored chips. It was honestly the exact same flavor as a McD's pickle, just without the texture. My mind was blown. The only thing was that I found it impossible to eat more than three or four single chips in one sitting, because the pickle taste was unbelievably overpowering.

Yeah, pickle is not an extreme flavor I'd want. There are good flavors to turn the volume up on, like Cheese and Barbecue and shit like that. By all means, flavor away. But extreme pickle? I think I'm okay with just a subtle hint of pickle. That would be like if Hint of Lime Tostitos (amazing) became Assload of Lime Tostitos. Not sure I need THAT much lime.

Eugene Chung:

During my junior year of high school we used to play HORSE in chemistry lab, using crumpled up paper towels and the garbage can in the corner. I lost a few double or nothing games and there I was. At $1.50 a pop I didn't want to shell out the $25.50 so instead we made a deal.

We both had English class 6th period with a daffy old teacher named Mrs. Sanner who had a soft spot for our immature retardery. We decided that at exactly 1:15 I would get up to sharpen my pencil and drop to the floor and fake a seizure. Word had spread so when the time came there was an audience of no less than 30 people in the hallway looking in. I got to the middle of the room (the desks were set up semi-circle style) and I hit the floor and convulsed wildly for at least three or four minutes. My friend even stuck a wallet in my mouth, which is what I guess you're supposed to do. Now keep in mind I'm a pretty big dude. I was probably weighing in at 290 lbs at that point so I'm sure it was quite a spectacle. After the thrashing around stopped I got up and finished sharpening my pencil like nothing happened. The best part was I didn't get in any trouble. All Mrs. Sanner said was that I shouldn't have done that because if someone in the class really had epilepsy they would have been offended. No real question or anything, I just thought it was a good story.

Did you foam at the mouth? That's what gave you away. To perfect a phony seizure, you really need to have some Barbasol ready, or something that will duplicate that unique HOLY SHIT HE MAY HAVE RABIES! effect. Then, you can go all Drugstore Cowboy on the floor.

If I had epilepsy, I would fake people out all the time. It would be so easy. People HAVE to believe you. Just roll your eyes back into your head, and suddenly your friend who KNOWS you have real epilepsy would start freaking out. Then you could be like BAHAHAHAHAHA FOOLED YOU! Then he'd punch you. Then you'd have a real seizure, only he wouldn't buy it and he'd leave you, and then you'd swallow your own tongue. Maybe, now that I've played it all the way out, it wouldn't be so fun.

Anon:

My younger cousin told me that he recently lost his virginity. He told me he lasted a whole 5 minutes. I laughed out loud because I knew he was lying. There is no way he could have lasted 5 minutes right?

Sure there is. Some people last even longer, because they can't get it up to begin with. Like, uh… To be frank, when my first time came around, I was completely unable to get an erection, and became so angry at myself for it that the problem just got compounded. I mean, I had waited twenty fucking years to get to that moment, and I had put so much pressure on myself to perform that everything went to complete shit. I nearly grabbed a bicycle pump to try and inflate the thing manually. COME ON, YOU STUPID DICK! GET UP! THIS IS WHAT WE'VE BEEN TALKING ABOUT FOR SO LONG! IT'S HERE! HOW CAN YOU LET ME DOWN LIKE THIS? BETRAYER! BETRAYER! I'LL FUCKING CHOKE YOU… HEY. THAT KINDA FEELS GOOD!

Anyway, no two people have the same V-card experience. Some guys get it up too quick. Others, like me, never get out of the gate. I would have far preferred the former.

Corey:

Does a blinker in a crowded parking lot signify possession?

Only if you know damn well you got there first.

TLM:

Do you think zombies constantly shit and piss all over the place, like rats?

Well, they consume brains, so I assume they digest them. Man, would that make for a hellacious dump. Talk about shit for brains.

Arnaldo:

I'm sure I'm not the only one who enjoys the center of an Oreo cookie. And with that enjoyment of the center comes the wish that Nabisco would just package that shit separately.

But what would you put it on, besides a chocolate wafer? Toast? Would you put it in an omelet? I'm quite sure Nabisco has tried to market such a product, only to watch the product's test subjects die of fat person diabeetus within seven seconds of the first bite.

I like cheap ber:

In the office where I work, sometimes leftover food from meetings will be left out on a table in a common area, which happens to be right by my cubicle. I recently began keeping a box of ziplock storage bags in my desk drawer. So now I will take a cookie or two or three and store it in a bag for later in the week. Is this wrong?

No.

Just to add to the ethical quandary, I'm a contractor, and not a regular employee.

YOU MONSTER.

Richard:

So every time I have a flight I sit in the waiting area scoping out all my fellow passengers. It seems like there will ALWAYS be at least one smoking hot chick on every flight I take. But will hers be the seat next to mine? HELL. NO. NEVER. I'll get the single mom with the teething, screaming two-year old or the fat guy who spills into my seat the whole flight or the nattering old lady who won't shut the fuck up. Just ONCE I'd like to have the smoking hot chick sit down next to me. Is that asking too much?

It's the dream scenario, isn't it? You sit down in your coach seat, then a gorgeous woman comes by and asks, "Is this seat taken?" Then drinks are served, the lights dim, the talk becomes lively, and suddenly you're getting a hanj under a Delta blanket. It never happens that way. Even if you seat yourself on Southwest (and we could do a whole mailbag on the Southwest boarding procedure), there's never a free spot next to the hot girl, and the hot girl never elects to sit next to you. That's a real bitch.

Also, I don't think it's much to ask if, just once, I could be on a flight with an incompetent terrorist who can be easily foiled. Man, would I love to stomp the shit out of Haji al Queefira and his feeble hat bomb. I go onto every flight primed for terrorist combat. Instead, I get Bill, the shower curtain ring salesman from Idaho.

And now, we come to a GREAT MOMENT IN POOP HISTORY:

Adam:

A few years ago on the Acela I was waiting to take a leak and the bathroom nearest my seat was occupied. After a few minutes, the door unlocked and then-Senator Joe Biden emerged. When I entered the facility after his departure, I was immediately hit with, quite literally, the smelliest post-dump odor I have EVER experienced. It was so wretched that I was forced to immediately turn and exit and move to the bathroom in the next car, walking past Biden and his staffer on the way. He looked up at me, and I'm quite sure he knew his stink had forced me out.

It's not just his mouth that gets him in trouble.

My kid has become obsessed with flashlights, which makes sense because I've NEVER stopped enjoying playing with flashlights. Seriously, flashlights are awesome. You can shine them directly in people's eyes. You can point them at the wall and shake them to make cool patterns. LOOK! A CIRCLE OF LIGHT! You can take them into the woods and pretend you're a detective looking for a corpse. I love flashlights in every way. I love taking them into the basement and pretending I'm going down into a city sewer, preparing to confront some grisly subterranean beast. Because you never know in the dark. Do you? One second, your flashlight is shining on the dryer. The next second, you're turning the corner and BOOM! Fucking vampire at 11 o'clock. With flashlights, life becomes one giant horror movie.

So, by all means, go out, get drunk and stoned, and play with flashlights, people. That's what they're for. Now, the letters.

JP:

I wanted to ask you about the act of child-birth, more specifically, the Dad's role during this momentous occasion. Is it no longer acceptable for the Dad to remain in the waiting room passing out cigars? And if you must be by her side, is it possible to avoid having to look at ‘ground zero'?

Men are expected to be in the delivery room (you want to be there, I assure you), and are expected to help with the pushing. That is to say, you will be expected to take your wife's leg (the nurse takes the other), bring her knee to her ear, and count to ten as she tries to squeeze the child out. This can last for hours, and it's fucking brutal on your back. Of course, you can't complain that your back hurts during this, because your wife will be attempting to push a human child out of her cervix. Fair enough.

Now, I went to childbirth class with the Mrs. on our first kid (no parent does this with the second kid, because once you have the kid you realize how pointless the class was). In this class, they forced us to watch videos of live births. It was horrifying. It was the worst porno I've ever seen. Apparently, they were all shot in 1986 on the lowest quality videotape humanly possible. Every woman they selected had Linda Hamilton's Terminator mullet. All of them were sweating. One was buck naked on the table. One was naked and squatting on the table, trying to poop the baby out. And many of the babies came out covered in a white, waxy substance called vernix that makes the child look like a creature from Ghoulies.

These movies were traumatizing to me, but they drove the point home that every man needs to know: Never look at ground zero. I covered this over at FKS, but it bears repeating: keep your eyes focused on your wife's face. You will be tempted to look down. Do not. It's like when they open the Ark of the Covenant in Raiders. You don't want to look right at it. Your head will melt. Also, by staring at your wife's face, you give HER something to look at, instead of staring down at her own business. Think childbirth is scary to watch? Imagine being the one in the stirrups.

You will be stunned by the amount of blood that comes out during birth. It's insane. I can only speak for my experience, but there was blood everywhere. EVERYWHERE. In the fucking corner of the room, yards away from my wife. On the fucking ceiling. And I was like, "How the fuck did blood get there?" Well, it did somehow. The room was painted with stuff. I spent hours and hours staring at my wife, only to turn around and see red all over. I nearly collapsed. Mothers are quite something.

One funny aside to this: My wife received an epidural for birth, and it was hospital policy that the husband remain seated during the injection, lest he pass out from watching it (which I was told had happened on occasion). Yet, during the actual birth, you can stand all you like. You can do jumping jacks, for all they care. Seems inconsistent. Because I nearly passed out, and I didn't even have to give birth to the thing.

Our second kid was born C-section. The erect a curtain at your wife's waist. I was not allowed to take a peek behind it. In some ways, this was worse, because my wife and I were sitting on one side of the curtain, and we knew EXACTLY what was going on. You could see the blood spattering the doctor's faces. You could hear, well, gushing sounds as he moved his hands around. I mean, holy fucking shit. You know the other side of that curtain is hosting a butchering. It's a horrible, horrible sensation. And again, that's just from the husband's perspective. I wasn't even the one being slit open. My wife passed out from blood loss and nausea. She was walking a day later. Again, women are quite the strong gender.

Of course, children are well worth all this. And frankly, it's worth going through the experience because HOLY FUCK THIS IS FUCKING LIFE AND DEATH. You feel like you're in the middle of an episode of ER, only the doctors NEVER FUCKING SHOW UP. Plus, you get to share your story with soon-to-be parents, and scare the ever-living fuck out of them. ENJOY!

Kenny:

Do you have an overwhelming desire to steal when using the self checkout at grocery stores?

Yup. I've been subject to checks they run to ensure that I am NOT stealing, where the clerk comes by and randomly scans a few things in the basket (because I use the self-scanner gun too).

I feel a certain amount of stealing at self-checkout is acceptable. Remember: you're saving the store money by cutting on employee wages and benefits by using self-checkout. That, to me, is worth a free bakery item. If I can't find the item on your fucking store's menu, then tough shit. It's mine. I'm either it taking it, or I'm scanning it as something cheaper. Jerusalem artichokes become red delicious apples with a simple push of a button. MWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

Scott:

Which do you prefer: The feeling you get when you go to unload the dishwasher so you can do the dishes, only to find the dishwasher is either (a) empty or (b) only partially filled with dirty dishes, thereby saving you some work, or the feeling you get when you go to switch your clothes into the dryer and discover the dryer is empty, so you only have to fold one load of clothes?

The dishwasher one. Because I am always ambushed with a clean dishwaher. ALWAYS. I'll be sitting there, cooking dinner, then I go to throw something in the dishwasher… BOOM! All clean! INSTANT FUCKING CHORE. God, I hate that. And it happens virtually any time I waltz into the kitchen. "Oh, honey. The dishwasher is done. Can you…" SHIT. So experiencing the opposite of that is downright orgasmic.

You know what I hate most about emptying the dishwasher? The shit that doesn't dry. The dishwasher will dry many things: plates, etc. But a fucking plastic bowl? No chance. Sopping wet when I pull it out. And sometime I get glasses that are still wet. The whole thing becomes a fucking drying party. KILL KILL KILL. Then there are items like coffee cups that have just enough of a depression in the bottom that they can accumulate a small tidal pool of water in them during the cycle. I fucking hate items like this. That shit spills all over the other dishes, and now I have to dry every goddamn thing. All cups and bowls should have flat bottoms. Always. Fucking gravy boat. You are DEAD TO ME.

Scott (cont'd):

I have 3 kids under 6. I feel more confident in the ability of our baby gates to keep out intruders than the deadbolt on our door. You could surround the Hope diamond with four baby gates and it would be safe. You ever watch a person without kids try and figure out how to open one of those gates? Even if you have kids, if the gate is a different brand than yours, it takes a good couple minutes of maneuvering and cursing before you finally just try to (always ungracefully) step over the thing.

The worst are pressure gates. People have these for dogs and kids. Instead of a mounted gate, which you screw into the wall and can swing open and closed, you have to push down pressure gates so they press against the wall. These are cheap, shitty gates, and I would fucking burn them all if I were allowed. They're impossible to remove. They're even harder to redo. They're just fucking ass. Then I try stepping over it, clip my foot on the top dislodge it, trip over it, and then go falling to my death. Got a kid? Got a dog? Have the courtesy to use a fucking mounted gate.

Tyson:

Is there any moment more embarrassing than when you're checking out at a retail store and your credit/debit card gets declined? I'm a college student that works at Uhaul part time and have experienced both sides of the awkwardness. When a customer's card gets declined it's impossible to tell them without making them feel like an ass. I'll try to run the card through again as if it will magically work the second time, knowing goddamn well it's going to get turned down again. On February 15th I was buying groceries and it happened to me. I got the fuck out of there as quickly as I could.

It's horrible because, when it happens, I'm always SHOCKED. I always looked shocked, and the clerk always looks at me like, "Don't act so shocked. You know and I know that you know you're fucking ass broke."

The worst part is then calling the company or checking the ATM to ensure that it was mistake, only to slowly realize no, it was no mistake. You are fucking dead broke, and this is exactly how you were able to pull off the feat.

Ian:

I've become a hypochondriac since having kids. Kids barf, I know there's a 1-in-3 chance I'll be sick too, so now when they even have a stomachache, my body starts freaking out. Is this something that be overcome?

No. I never used to wash my hands, now I'm a complete Howie Mandel about it. Getting kid strength diseases – where you have the flu for like, two goddamn weeks – will scare you into doing it.

The worst thing about having sick kids or a sick wife/girlfriend is that the "no touching the food or glasses" of others policy is immediately implemented by your woman. 40% of my food and fluid intake comes from the plates and glasses of others. I can't live if I can't steal my wife's food or eat the shit my kids won't. I have to be reminded of this policy 90 times a day when my wife sick. UH UH UH! NO DRINKING FROM MY GLASS! AND NO SEX! Not fun.

Mike:

We just had a debate in the office as to which fast food condiment was the best. McD's BBQ sauce garnered a fair bit of popularity, as did Taco Bell's fire sauce (all lesser tempered TB sauces are for completely worthless). My favorite: The roasted honey bbq sauce from Chik Fil A. I will hoard that stuff and put it on everything.

Don't forget Arby's sauce. I want to have a hot tub filled with Arby's sauce. And Baja Fresh black salsa. And my favorite sauce in the world: the hoisin sauce that comes with your moo shu chicken takeout. They give you one little dipshit cup of hoisin sauce. I need an oil tanker full of it. It's so fucking good. I want my blood transfused with hoisin sauce. And there's basic Heinz ketchup, which is the Zeus of fast food condiments. Ever get some odd, non-Heinz ketchup with your shit? Tastes like Heinz that was left out in the sun for eight months.

But yeah, when I was a kid, I used to ask Mickey D's for extra BBQ sauce (fuck you for giving me just one stupid container), and then pour it directly into my mouth. The secret ingredient is sodium.

Alex:

Have you ever gone commando under suit pants? It's like wearing pajamas to work!

Oh, it's a delight. But BEWARE. It also makes you unreasonably horny. You're wearing a suit with no underwear. You get that soft cotton glancing against your cokanballz… Ecstasy. You'll bang the bathroom dryer, you get so horny. So keep that in mind if you're going to a 14-hour accounting conference in which the fire exits have been sealed off.

Erick:

While you're eating some food that has cheese in it, do you find yourself eating around the rest of the meal in order to save the cheesiest part of the meal for the last bite? For example, a bagel with cheese on it. The bagel has that hole in the middle and I find myself eating around the entire bagel to assure myself a 80% cheese/20% bread last bite.

Yes, and this applies to more than just cheese. If I'm eating a sundae, I try and save the section with the most hot fudge for last. If I'm eating an omelet, I try and save the bite with most filling for last. If I'm eating a cinnamon roll, I try and save the part with the most frosting and cinnamon crap for last.

Ever get towards that last, flavor stuffed bite, only someone will come by RIGHT THEN and ask you for a bite, then take the bite you were saving? Grounds for murder. NO ONE DENIES THIS.

Charles C:

Drew, I love to pick dry skin off of my body. While doing this, its usually my feet and around the toes. I'll try to really get in there and pick off some big chunks of skin. Also, I usually do this while watching TV (I'm single and live alone). Is this normal?

Yes. The question is… do you eat it? Because I'll eat hand and arm skin. But toejam is where I draw the line.

When I was a kid, I was fascinated with the skin of my heel, because that's where skin is the thickest. I used to dig a pen into the back of my heel and rip away shreds of the heel skin, just to see how thick it was. And it was insanely thick. Like a wrestling mat. One time I put it in my mouth. Like leather. I didn't make the same mistake twice. That would have been, you know, gross and stuff.

If you have a stray piece of skin or nail hanging off your body, who can resist pulling it off? I mean, really. I knew a kid once who had a broken toenail and he just left the nail dangling there, still on his toe. Half ripped off. Who does this? Who has that willpower? I wanted to hold that fucker down and rip that fucking nail right off.

Jason:

I got toward the end of a bag of ruffles and some French onion dip simultaneously and solved it with the obvious cereal bowl full of chip/dip eaten with a spoon. Is that wrong? I don't think it's wrong.

You must listen to your heart. Referee Mills Lane says, "I'll allow it."

Jason (cont'd):

Additionally, my wife is more than 100 lbs lighter than me. We've had many a meal where our portions are roughly the same size, and she feels guilty about eating the same as me. Should I feel guilty for not telling her I had eaten a bag of pretzels, some peanut butter on toast, and 7 thin mints between lunch and dinner?

No. Not at all. My wife never knew half my intake before I started my diet. I'd just keep getting fatter and fatter, and she'd be like, "Well, you eat right." Oh, but I didn't. Dear, when you weren't looking, I plowed through a bag of Goldfish and ate half the jar of apple butter. Discipline is not my strong suit.

My wife is also more than 100 lbs. lighter than me. I feel like that merits some kind of certificate. Kevin James could hand them out.

Matt:

Is there anything so retardedly thrilling as opening a new jar of peanut butter and making the first knife-scoop into that perfectly smooth and flat surface? I purposely buy the smaller, more $/ounce jars just so I can do this more often.

It's just so smooth and soft and helpless to resist my blade... I'm like the BTK guy of Skippy...

It's like a perfectly still pool before you do a cannonball. There's always joy to be had in ruining things. It's like busting the hymen of the peanut butter. I'm the guy who goes to the art gallery and has to mentally restrain himself from punching a hole in one of the canvasses just for the sick thrill of it.

Opening a new jar of peanut butter is great because you get the pristine surface AND you get the sound of the vacuum seal coming undone. I love that sound, like when you open a jar of dry roasted peanuts. VOOP! It won't be long until you are in PeanutLand. Same with new containers of hummus (great because they're super flat) and tubs of ice cream.

All peanut butter jars should be designed as upside down trapezoids, with a really wide mouth. That gives you more surface to dig into, plus leaves more room for your hand as you dig deeper.

Jake:

I'm current plowing through a king sized bag of Reese's Pieces and have noticed a suggestion printed on the back of the bag "Squish Reese's Pieces into a banana for a crazy change." As if to say, "Eat some fruit or YOU'LL DIE FATASS". The gall.

THE GALL! Who has Reese's Pieces just to have fruit? More important, how are you supposed to squish them into the banana? I guess you press them in, so they remain on the surface of the banana. But you could also push them in edge first, so it disappears right inside the banana. But then the banana would break. The whole suggestion is just shitty and pointless.

Kyle:

I'm a grown man and still often confuse my lefts and rights-especially when I'm under pressure.

Does this mean I am slightly mentally retarded?

It's embarrassing, isn't it? This happens sometimes when I drive.

ME: Which way is it?

WIFE: Left.

ME: Okay. (Begins turning right)

WIFE: Your other left.

ME: FUCK!

Trent D:

After graduating college, an acquaintance and I moved into a decent little townhome.

Anyway, the scariest thing about moving to a new place is the bugs. No, I don't mean the "EEEEEK there's a tiny translucent spider on the baseboard!" bugs. I mean the freaking scary bugs, the ones that you hope never live in your house. Killer spiders, giant pointy bugs, things you never learned about in science class. Have you ever SEEN a picture of a brown recluse bite? Those things live IN SOMEBODY'S HOUSE. And freaky bugs never come out to play when you tour a new place. They're always hiding under the edge of the toilet seat or chilling inside the air ducts or something. Then a few days after your deposit gets cashed HERE COMES CRAZYLEGS!

Listen, I'm a red blooded male. I'm not afraid of spiders. I'm not afraid of flies, or other stupid normal bugs. But within the first week, one of these freaking things takes off across at approximately 700 miles per hour.

I have the freaky centipede fuckers in my basement. They're very hairy, and fast when moving, but they don't bite, and they're easy to kill when they're sitting still. The wife is terrified of them. I don't fear them anywhere near as much as I fear spiders, cave crickets, and cockroaches. I mean, holy shit, look at these photos of a brown recluse bite. (NSFLunch). If that was discovered in my house, I would burn the house down. And I would sue the FUCK out of the previous owner. Oh, you mentioned the mold in the basement. But you didn't tell me there were bugs here that rival those in the fucking Temple of Doom.

That's why I could never live in Australia again. I was born in Australia. We moved back to the US when I was four months old. My dad says he regularly found tarantulas in the garbage cans. My brother once went out in the woods and got bitten by something that, to this day, he did not see and was never identified. He had to be hospitalized for it. HORRIFYING. I'll never live anywhere where tarantulas are just, you know, hanging out casually. I can't do that.

Burt:

What is the greatest food to reheat in a microwave? For my money nothing is better than chicken chow mein. I wouldn't kill for it but torture is not out of the question.

But is that chow mein, or LO mein? ARE YOU CALIFORNIAN?

Obviously, it can't be something crispy or crunchy, because microwaves destroy those items. And it can't be something with cheese on top, like pizza. Microwaved pizza is fucking terrible. The cheese turns translucent. Makes me nauseous. That leaves you with soups and stew and curries. Aw yeah, curry.

Jim:

The back of the plane is ten million times better on a long ass international flight. Why? It is basically like the back of a domestic flight, BUT WITH NEVER ENDING FLOWS OF COGNAC. I recently discovered this on a Lufthansa flight from DC to Munich. One of those flights where we left at a time where we really weren't meant to sleep during the flight, so me and some friends got up to see what was up at the back of the plane. Chat up the stewardesses for a few minutes and BAM out comes the cognac. It is free and there is much of it. Amazing.

But you flew Lufthansa, regarded by many as one of the finest airlines out there. It's a whole other story on Delta, or some shitass American airline.

Sometimes, you luck out and get those flights that turn into spontaneous cocktail parties. This, of course, happens on most Vegas flights. But it's rare outside of that. Sometimes, you get those flights where there's a giant group of people traveling together, and they're all drinking and friendly. It's nice when it happens.

HALFTIME!

David H:

Did you ever have the chance to unleash all the pent up childhood energy and just go ape shit on something?

My father was known to collect all manner of junk and crap. And one day he brings home a safe. Maybe like 2 feet tall and a foot square. He quickly loses interest in it and tells me to do what I want with it. I'm like 10 at this point, so of course I'm gonna break into this thing!

Lacking any real tools, I take a ballpeen hammer, picked a spot dead center in the top of the thing, and just proceed to hammer. I'd hammer in the morning, I'd hammer in the evening. And after what must have been a weeks I had busted my way though that shit and opened a nice fist sized hole in the top of it.

You have no clue how proud of myself I was.

Now I want to buy a safe just to break into it. I've destroyed countless umbrellas. My friend also once was throwing out his old TV. But we realized that throwing it out was stupid when we could beat the fuck out of it first. So we took it outside and kicked and stomped the thing into oblivion. Then, for good measure, we threw it into the East River. That was a great day.

I'd like to go Walter Sobchak on a car sometime. Preferably a car that did me some sort of injustice. My car has cost me thousands in repairs. One day, rather than call the scrap yard, I will take a bat and abuse it like one of Sprewell's children. Women don't really understand the male urge to destroy things. It's a primal need, like the need for sex, food, water, or Arby's sauce.

Sean:

Is there anything worse than cutting your fingernails too short, and the pain involved thereafter? I always try to get them nice and even, and remove all of the nail portion that is white beyond the translucent pair. Without fail I end up with fingers that pain me for the next day or so.

It's worse if you're a nail biter like me. Sometimes, I start to tear off a nail, only it tears deeper than I thought it would. Now the only choice is to leave the nail hanging (again, I am incapable of doing this), or tear it clean off and rip away the nail bed. Pain. Blood. Agony. And that's what I do. Then, without fail, I will bang my finger against a door or wall in that EXACT vulnerable spot. I should probably just do away with my fingers. They cause me nothing but agony.

Barry:

Do you ever just flat out lie? Like, for no reason? I do it a lot, and have no idea why.

When my parents call me, I tell them I'm about to walk into the grocery, when I'm really at work. Or when my friend calls me and wakes my lazy ass up on a weekend morning at 11am, I say I've been up 2 hours. Then I have to lie more to tell when what I've been doing for 2 hours on a Sunday morning. Am I the only one who lies for absolutely NO reason?

I also lie when it's blatantly obvious that I'm lying. I'll put wet dishes away in the cabinet.

WIFE: Did you dry the dishes?

ME: Yes.

WIFE: (looks at dishes) No, you didn't.

ME: Yes, I did.

WIFE: Are you retarded? THE WATER IS VISIBLE.

ME: Uh… I dunno. There must be water in the cabinet.

John:

Is it just me, or are Pringles the least filling thing ever? I could eat 6 full cans of pizza pringles in a sitting, easy. And if I'm drunk, get me to the nearest 7-11 and I will eat every last Pringle in that place.

All chips are like that, except Pringles stack together so tightly, you can pack more of them into individual bites, thus plowing through a can faster.

I've always thought I could eat, like, 5 cans of Pringles in a single sitting. But I've NEVER had the guts to do it. I've never had the balls to say, "You know? Fuck it. I will eat this one thing until failure." Because I don't know that my appetite has a failure point. I'm on this fucking diet, and I have to drink tea at the end of very meal to signal to my brain OKAY, YOU ARE NOW FINISHED EATING UNTIL THE NEXT MEAL. Otherwise, I'll just keep eating. All day. A meal will bleed into a snack. A snack will bleed into the next meal. Left to my own devices, I would NEVER stop eating. Ever. I love it so much.

Dave:

I'm 26 college grad, gainfully employed working 40-50 hours a week in an office. One way I like to spend my free time (what little I have before getting married and having kids) is beating up 12 year olds via Xbox Live. My girlfriend obviously thinks I'm a loser for doing so, but I would tend to disagree, as I try to explain to her that a significant portion of men in my age bracket (if not older) grew up playing vids and still do to this day.

Am I wrong here?

No. Most videogames are now designed for grownups. More grownups play them than kids. Getting pissed at someone for liking video games is like being pissed at them for liking movies.

The only reason your chick is pissed is because video games take up more time than movies or TV, and she can't play it with you because she probably is very bad at playing them.

Andy:

How would you rank the top places to study abroad in college? Barcelona seems like the popular choice, but I'm looking for something not so obvious.

Um, Australia? Have you considered Australia? You should go to Australia. Sure, I'm terrified of spiders that can fly and carry firearms, but that doesn't mean you are. Go. I've never heard of anyone who went abroad to Australia and came back saying, "God, that sucked. I wish I'd stayed in Cleveland." No one says that, because that would be insane. Everyone I've seen come back from Australia looks tan, and more attractive, and they GLOW with contentment. They didn't have to learn some goddamn foreign language. They just drank and made friends and screwed and basically spent four months in Eden.

If you're strictly looking into Europe, I went to England. It was awesome. I recommend it. Spain and Italy are filled with great food but tons of Catholic women. You'll only have sex with other American students, which I guess is, uh... not optimal? Aw hell, you can't go wrong. Even if you go to Germany, which is filled with nothing but fucking bossy weirdos. Just leave America. Go anywhere. Leave our shores and don't come back until you're drunk and happy.

Serge:

I went an all-male Catholic high school. One day in 10th grade English, one of the guys pulled out a sheet of notebook paper and proceeded to wipe a neon green gem that he'd been mining for a while. He wrote "Booger Paper" at the top and passed it on. Within minutes there must have been 20 or so nose nuggets of all various shapes, sizes, colors, and consistencies. Everybody put their initials next to their work for the others to admire. I told my wife this story and she gave me the "I don't know who you are anymore" look. She blames most of my disgusting behavior on that school.

As well she should. At prep school, I'd estimate I pissed out of my dorm room window far more than I pissed in an actual toilet. The toilet was down two flights of stairs. Too far for my tastes.

Chris:

Have you ever seen a urinal like this? Maybe I have been living in a cave, but this is my first encounter with one and I was very pleased.

Yes. Very old school. Very easy to thread the needle there.

Dave:

My girlfriend always spends the weekends at my house and I had to put in a Saturday at the office and told her I would be late. Lucky enough I finished up early and headed home. Open the door and the TV was on but she's nowhere to be found, not in the kitchen or front room. Walk to the bedroom and hear a muffled sound and walk on the other side of the bed and she'd on the floor eyes closed and using a vibrator. All I could say was "whoa" and walk right out. WHY DID I WALK OUT? Should I have stayed and helped out? Should I have just treated it as a race and tried to beat her to the finish?

Porn training demands you whip out your penis and say, "You look like you could use some help." You probably interrupted her in an extremely private moment and scared the piss out of her, therefore destroying her mood. Just one of the many ways life is a total letdown from porn.

I used to have that fantasy all the time when I was a kid. I'd walk into a house or classroom and stumble upon some horny lass pleasuring herself, just wishing there was a man around with a working penis to assist her in getting some relief. I did not, nor have I ever, actually stumbled upon such a scenario.

I've also had the reverse fantasy, where I'm caught masturbating, only I'm caught by a sexy lady who is intrigued rather than disgusted. Again, "You look like you could use some help." THEN IT'S ON!

I have been caught masturbating. It never turns out like this. Not at all. TRY KNOCKING NEXT TIME, MOM! JESUS!

Kevin F:

As a kid, a public bathroom's urinal or toilet would often have discarded cigarette butts or better yet half smoked cigarettes. Was there anything better than breaking up the rolling paper and dispersing the tobacco, or if your stream was on that day, the rare nirvana of breaking the filter? Sadly, once restaurants and several other public places got rid of smoking in their premises, there has been a lack of opportunities to engage in cigarette destruction.

Sometimes, if you've pulled over on the side of the road to piss, you'll see a cigarette butt on the asphalt. Same sense of satisfaction, ONLY NOW IN THE WILD!

There is a rare pleasure to be had in pissing on things. If someone were to produce a biodegradable, pipe-friendly series of urinary targets – small figurines of men, women, dogs, terrorists, Jason McIntyre – for you to piss on, I would buy such a thing. Pissing on things, particularly destroying or dissolving things with your stream, is a pleasure only men can know.

Neil:

I recently thought I would challenge myself to make it from the drive-thru to my destination without plunging into the fries seated next to me.

I'm praying for green lights the whole way because every red light stop is fucking AGONY with those tasty fries taunting me. So by some miracle, I make it to the parking lot at work where I planned on eating my dinner, I stop the car and reach in for my reward. Guess what? The fries are FUCKING COLD.

Punished for willpower. From now on, those fries aren't going to make it ten feet from the drive-thru window.

Why did you do that to yourself? YOU WERE GOING TO EAT IN YOUR FUCKING CAR ANYWAY. Never do that. They're fries. They are meant to be eaten IMMEDIATELY after being fried. Don't waste fucking time.

Even worse than fries in the car is pizza. I will drive 10 mph faster with pizza smell wafting through the car. I pick up the pizza, stick in the passenger seat, get in the other side, close the door, and GOOD LORD THAT SMELLS FANTASTIC. Agony to drive with pizza in the car.

Jason:

Don't you totally want to light a fire in your living room and cook a deer head over it every time you watch Survivor Man or Man vs Wild?

After I watch any episode of Man vs. Wild at night, I will go to bed that night pretending I'm out in the wild sleeping next to a fire. I'll pull the covers up to my head and shiver and everything. In the wild, it's important to build a fire. Not just for warmth. BUT IT'S SO CRUCIAL FOR MORALE. SURVIVAL IS ALL ABOUT KEEPING YOUR SPIRITS UP.

Old J:

You ever sit in a desk chair and accidentally drop a piece of candy or food? No matter what, that fucker will be impossible to find without getting up and moving the chair. And half the time it's rolled all the way across the room.

Don't forget about stepping on it. My feet will instantly home in on the object and smush it into a million shards. Then I eat the crumbs anyway.

I'll also roll my chair over the thing for good measure. Say, where'd my tempura go?

CRUNCH.

Oh.

Jimjim:

If you were forced to be one of the two, would you rather be a woman with a penis or a man with a vagina? Explain.

Easy. Woman with penis. Because then you'd actually be a man. With real boobs and everything. There's a reason she-males outnumber he-gals 1,000 to 1, you know. Nothing to complain about if you're a she-male. A man with a vagina? Repulsive.

Ryan:

I have lived in a couple of states and I don't know if this is a nationwide thing with all dry cleaners, but they always seem to break the buttons on my shirts, especially the ones on the cuffs. And I can't sew.

Nor I. Losing a cuff button is the worst, because I'm too lazy to fix it and then the cuff just flaps around and it's clear I'm missing a button. Lose a button on the main strip, that can be ignored easily. But lose a cuff button and the thing may as well go in the fucking garbage.

B:

The Mythbusters tested it out and a falling icicle can totally kill you, so presumably one could be used as a murder weapon as well. One of the few things the Mythbusters haven't taken the piss out of, actually.

That's why I never watch that show. Not only do the two hosts look like they spend their off hours banging inflatable cats, but they usually never prove a myth correct. Assholes. I don't want the myth RUINED. I want it proven, so that I might fantasize about the hide coming off a baseball, or other shit like that. No one likes a buzzkill, SCIENCE BOYS.

Chris:

What do you think is the answer for the reverse Travis Henry, i.e. the most crumb-grabbers for one road beef? I'm guessing it's 4-5 kids.

With the kids all from different athletes? Probably three or so.

What would complicate this question is abortion. What is the largest number of abortions one groupie has ever had? Remember: multiple abortions can leave a woman sterile. So it's not some insane number like 25. But what about 10? Imagine going in for your tenth abortion. If you pay for nine, the clinic should give you the tenth for free. They should give you the coupon when you walk out of your ninth abortion. HERE! NEXT ONE'S ON US! LEAST WE CAN DO!

Sam:

How did you and your wife handle putting your first kid to bed when she had to be rocked? We take turns putting our son down, but when it is my wife's turn, she wants me to stay in the room with her. I don' t just want to lay on the floor useless. I can be fixing shit around the house or watching TV. Also, as an English teacher, I have stupid essays to grade. I want to spend time with my wife when we can talk, not whisper. Also, if I lay on the floor I am likely to fall asleep, and then she gets mad at me for falling asleep. When it is my turn, I suggest she can go downstairs, hoping she gets the hint, but she never does.

That's completely unreasonable. The whole point of there being TWO of you is so that one of you is free to live a normal life while the other is stuck with the child. There's no point in BOTH of you suffering. Especially if you only have one kid. Just leave the room and go do work. She'll get used to it.

Wrecking Ball:

Heated M&Ms. Put some on a plate and nuke ‘em for 10 seconds. Sheer, gooey delight. It never occurred to me to do that.

Nor I. But here I sit, fascinated.

When I make chocolate chip cookies, which used to be often, I would nuke the old ones for ten seconds before eating them. Every time. My wife is too lazy to do this, which stuns me. It's ten seconds. You can't wait ten seconds for that cookie to be warm and gooey, Mrs. Fields style? That's crazy.

Jeffrey:

If you were being chased by someone, and you were both on foot, what do you think would be the coolest way to get away from them? You could leap from a bridge onto a boat passing underneath. You could run and jump onto a moving train, either onto the caboose from behind or, if it's a freight train, into a random boxcar that happens to have the door open. If I were being chased I would like a ski lift to be involved somehow. If they followed you onto the lift you would have the options of continuing to run once you reached the top, leaping off the lift at some point and risking the 20 foot drop, or maybe even surprising them at the top. Lots of possibilities.

I like the moving train or bus. Remember: all buses have that hatch in the top. You could totally open the hatch, drop down, commandeer the bus from the driver, and then drive it through a fruit cart and a plate of glass.

I also like to incorporate Parkour into my fantasy. In my imagination, I have Jackie Chan's agility, and can therefore leap on top of that dumpster and then fly over that chain link fence in one graceful motion. In reality, it would take me 7 hours to do this. This is what the imagination is for.

Guns also have to be involved. You have a gun. Your pursuer has a gun. And you have to hide behind an oil barrel every twenty feet or so and engage in a brief gunfight before moving ahead.

I imagine any chase I'm in ends up in some kind of abandoned warehouse or factory. But the factory still has working conveyor belts and shit. Basically, I envision Donkey Kong, only all too real. And no monkey.

Dave:

You really blow your nose in the shower? That is fucking disgusting. Fuck you fatty.

But where else am I supposed to blow it? I save trees doing that.

Joe:

I'm cold and there are wolves after me.

I say we call Matlock. He'll find the culprit. It's probably that evil Gavin MacLeod or George "Goober" Lindsay!

Brett:

What is normal to wash yourself with while showering? I grew up using a wash cloth, but my girlfriend bought a loofa to keep at my apartment not long ago and that thing is fucking sweet. It's mildly embarrassing, but a loofa is at least ten times nicer to wash with than a washcloth.

Get over yourself. Use a loofah or a poof. Welcome to the 21st century, men. Washcloths are retarded.

Anonymous:

If you met a girl and asked what she did for a living what answer would throw you off the most? My friends say prostitute, porn actress, or some kind of fecal examining microbiologist. For me it's gotta be dominatrix.

It would be weird meeting a hooker or a porn star like that. Deep down, every guy loves hookers and porn stars. But in that social setting, I would become very conservative. "Oh, well, that's nice." Total hypocrite move. But whatever. Porn stars aren't normal people and I'd feel weird actually interacting with them.

Oh, and to answer your question: Hit woman. "Hi, I'm Jenny. I kill people for a shadowy criminal syndicate that has its tentacles in every branch of the US government."

Chuck:

I'm so excited I just had to tell someone and figured you could appreciate it.

I work in a single floor building. It's an old warehouse that was converted to office spaces so while it's single floor, there's probably 8 feet above the ceiling to the roof. It's mostly crammed with wires and plumbing up there.

The other day I was slacking off walking around the building when I decided to check out the old cafeteria that closed a few years ago. I went in the back area of the cafeteria and found doorway-sized cubbyholes that were obviously lockers for the old cafeteria staff. But the last locker area had two stairs and then a bend to the left with about 6 more stairs. I couldn't help but follow them.

Guess what's at the top of the stairs? A brand fucking new unisex bathroom with one urinal, one throne, a sink and a locking door! Obviously built just for the cafeteria staff. It's completely secluded and since there's no cafeteria staff anymore, no one uses that area. All the lights are kept off. I feel like I've found the hidden 13th floor of a hotel or that hidden train platform to Hogwarts. Needless to say, I never shit at home anymore. I always take my trips to the second floor bathroom in my one floor building. I am so happy I will never leave my job. One downside is that I will have to kill anyone I find using that bathroom.

And you would be justified in doing so.

I spent my entire childhood hoping to find secret passages in both my house and any other building I entered. I scoured walls. I pulled books halfway out of bookcases to see if a latch was caught. Even today, I secretly hope that I will, unwittingly, walk into a big house, trip over something, and open up a portal to fucking Middle Earth, or somewhere less gay than Narnia. It will happen. You watch. One day I'll disappear. And you'll never hear from me again, because I'll be fighting Tiamat.

Pfft. Surely Someone Evacuating A collapsing Building Can Take Our Call

Bag Ball:

I hate being an attorney. I hate being an attorney in part, because so many attorneys are heartless, misogynist, giant blow-hard d-bags. I once worked for one of the worst in New Jersey, which would put him in the running for worst in the world. We were a small firm of about six attorneys (more or less depending on who quit or was fired in any particular month). The managing partner was referred to by my fellow associate attorneys and I simply as "the King."

The King ruled with an iron fist, but not like a "sane" dictator who wields power to get what he wants, but in a psychotic irrational fashion that generally causes disasters – like a Pol Pot. One example of his madness occurred on 9/11. Yeah, the real 9/11.

We were a firm which specialized in employment discrimination and as such, did a lot of work with the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission which was formerly located in 7 World Trade Center (which was directly next door to the towers). The King had been demanding from the EEOC a certain document so he could bring one of his dog shit cases out of the EEOC and into federal court. On the morning of 9/11, he demanded that we start calling the EEOC to get that letter by the close of business. After leaving a message at the EEOC's office at 7 WTC, the two towers were hit. Of course, we were glued to the TV and radio following the events all morning. And at the time, there were all sorts of wild reports including that the State Department had been bombed and the White House was one fire. Seemingly, calling the EEOC so we can file a lawsuit for some jerk-off who got fired for stealing bird seed off a truck seemed unimportant at the time.

Well, the fact that 10,000 people could be burning alive in the towers adjacent to the EEOC's offices did not stop the King from screaming at us to get someone on the horn. In fact, even when the towers came down, the King got even angrier when his retort to use was, "well, 7 WTC is not the towers, they should be there, get calling." At 5:21 p.m, we were able to inform the King that 7 WTC no longer existed as it had collapsed as well. It was our only respite from the constant calls to the EEOC that day.

In the weeks after 9/11, we would wonder if some rescue worker digging in the "pile," as it became known, would find a blinking answering machine with our calls that day. A memorial of sorts. A record of one asshole boss and what he made us to on the worst day I had ever witnessed.

I never thought about going to a cemetery to piss on another's grave, but when the King dies, I going to piss on his. A steamy smelly bacon and asparagus piss. It's the most un-kosher tribute I could think of.

More 9/11 heartwarmers

AS:

On September 10th 2001, I flew to Kansas City for a meeting in Wichita Kansas. Everyone remembers where they were the morning of September 11th 2001. I remember getting a call from my boss telling me "nothing's wrong, everyone is working get your ass to your meeting". Being employed meant a lot to me and my family, so I didn't argue and proceeded to my first meeting of the morning to find out the office had been closed for the day. He finally gets the idea that no business would be conducted for the next few days and tells me to come home. Well, I had no way to get home as most flights had been grounded and appeared they would be for the next few days. Luckily, I had a friend who happened to be doing business in Kansas City, had a car and was willing to pick me up and drive me home. He was not happy I was not using my airline ticket.

Two weeks later, I was leaving for another meeting. As I was leaving the office for the airport, jack ass tells me: "and I expect you to use the ticket the company bought for you this time. No more shenanigans like having your friends drive you home". He had no compassion. Thank God I was able to quit a short time later. A few years ago he actually topped that story though. Apparently one of his new employees had a heart attack and collapsed in his office. As the ambulance drove him away, he turned to an employee and asked: "Did he clock out?". Donald I hope that you fucking die with a flaming cucumber sticking out of your ass!!!!!!!!!

And he never kept Josh Hamilton sober!

Anon:

Man, I feel like this series was created specifically for my ex-boss at the Texas Rangers (the baseball team).

This guy's name is 'Chip'. Anyways, he was somehow put in charge of a group of Inside Sales people...people who were really just willing to do ANYTHING to get a job with a professional sports team. So I guess he used that to his advantage because he would torture people and then tell them that he had 'a hundred other people willing to run through a brick wall to be in your position'.

One incident that comes to mind was when he dressed down one of the better sales guys in front of the room. I guess he didn't like the way he was leaving messages for people, so he storms out of his office and walks back to this guys cubicle and goes 'Hey, have you heard how stupid you sound on the phone? It's fucking pathetic.' With that he turns and starts to walk away, but then decides he's not done and comes back 'Do me a favor...I want you to call your phone and leave yourself a message, so that way you can hear what a robot you sound like. I mean, you should be embarrassed'. Of course, this guy is a huge pussy and is falling all over himself to comply. I'm just shaking my head because I actually feel weird having to witness this. But, the guy calls himself (I'll protect his name) 'Hi Nick Meyer, this is Nick Meyer....' you get the idea. 'Nick' promptly jumps up after the call and makes a beeline to Chip's office to thank him for the activity, to which he just laughs and tells him to get back to work.

There was also the time that he stormed into the office and notified everyone that the team was installing web monitoring software and that we were forewarned so we better not be screwing around anymore. He also added the strange line of 'and deleting your cookies won't help, either'. Uh, ok. Come to find out a few months later that he had been watching porn on his work computer and he got busted for it...thus the web monitoring software.

Revenge on gay sexual harasser!

JH:

I was a resident advisor at the University of Kentucky at an all-male dorm. The place smelled like shit, but I worked with some awesome guys I still keep in touch with after we all graduated. Our hall director, Jethro, was a backwoods hillbilly from Harlan County, Kentucky where people butt-fuck their cousins and siblings.

Jethro was a disgustingly ugly person. He refused to have the hair trimmed off the back of his neck. Most of the staff joked that he needed a belly warmer because every shirt he owned didn't cover his large, protruding belly below the navel. This combined with a his thick, backwoods accent was already enough to destroy his chances of connecting with the staff and ANY woman. On top of his physical shortcomings, the man was a compulsive liar and we caught him on many of his ridiculous lies. Here is a list of the things he told his staff:

(1) He had not one, but two special made motorcycles from OC Choppers he like to ride around in the morning but kept them in a storage unit somewhere off campus and that's the reason we never saw them parked beside the building,
(2) He had a fiancee in Washington D.C. who was a high-powered lawyer, but surprisingly enough didn't have any photos of her,
(3) He had a personal helicopter that he used to see said fiancee on most weekends,
(4) He had a vacation house down in Florida,
(5) He received a large amount of money from a legal settlement that resulted in sporadic back pains,
(6) He had Alzheimer's (conveniently used to explain why he sometimes slurred his speech at staff meetings),
(7) He had a then brand new Ford Mustang that he also kept off campus because the residents always vandalized his cars, and
(8) He was in fact, straight.

This guy was a 35-year-old graduate student at UK, who lived in an all male dorm, for God's sake. Did he really think we believed him? I wish I could remember more of his lies, but these were the best, and most memorable ones.

We had heard Jethro was gay and that he solicited sex from residents as well as resident advisors. There was a physical copy of an instant messaging conversation where he tried to lure an RA to his room for butt-sex. I saw it and it was disgusting. There were two guys on our staff that particularly caught Jethro's eye. Gary, received constant shoulder rubs from Jethro, and one time Jethro gave Gary a large amount of condoms, while verbally reassuring Gary he would "need them soon" with an extremely creepy look that made Gary (and everyone that saw it) uncomfortable. There was another guy on our staff, Zelda, who hung out with Jethro a lot and helped us prove some of the stories Jethro told us were fabrications.

Anyway, the staff started to become really uncomfortable with Jethro's shoulder rubs, constant touching of his own penis, and sexual innuendos. There were certain individuals who wanted to take action against Jethro and informed Jethro's superiors of what was going on. Those individuals who decided to claim sexual harassment were, surprisingly, "let go" from their employment with the University and no actions were taken against Jethro. It was pretty fucked up to let these guys go just for being honest about what was going on.

I was a victim of the shoulder rubbing, but kept my mouth shut. The next year when I returned as an RA, the same touching and habits continued, except this year he left the returning staff alone. When members of this year's staff called these acts to the attention of Jethro's superiors, these staff members who did the right thing were once again terminated. This time, however, management decided to transfer Jethro to a different building. His new building would be a co-ed dorm. This should take care of the problem, right?

I returned for a third year and when the fall semester first started, I had heard from resident advisors in Jethro's new building that Jethro was up to his old tricks, except this time he was harassing girls as well as guys (one of whom was a very good friend of mine). I realized that Jethro had a few friends who were higher up in the Department of Residence Life. Anyone who tried to blow the whistle on Jethro was either fired immediately or let go at the end of the year. I decided one day in class that the only way to get Jethro fired, and not myself at the same time, was to get the media involved.

One night, I created an email account and contacted WLEX18 News in Lexington, Kentucky about Jethro and what he had been doing to his staff. They were very interested in airing the story but needed additional sources. I gave them the numbers of past staff but many of them were reluctant to tell their story (understandably so, as male-on-male sexual harassment is rather embarrassing). Only one former RA agreed to go on the record, and this former RA hated Jethro (and vice-versa). The reporter from WLEX18 emailed me back asking for me to come forward. Apparently WLEX18 couldn't run the story with only one person's testimony. I agreed under the condition I could provide a disguised video interview.

The story ran a couple weeks later on TV and was picked up by the student and city newspaper. It was truly epic. The Department of Residence Life went into damage control and reported to WLEX18 that Jethro was fired immediately, and I'm assuming this was a preemptive firing that Jethro knew nothing about until later that night. WLEX18 used a particularly creepy, yet humorously fitting, image from Jethro's facebook account to accompany the broadcast. No actions were ever taken against me. There was a campus out cry as to why Residence Life continued to let him supervise residence halls after there were 6 to 7 formal complaints and "disciplinary actions" taken against Jethro. I was surprised to learn it had been that many. (Link here.)

After the story aired some of the other staffers in other buildings that knew me came up to me and said they knew it was me that broke the story and gave the anonymous interview. Today, I consider this to be one of my greatest life accomplishments, even if it took me 2 years to come up with the idea and the nerve to do it. I still have newspaper clippings from where the story made the student and city's newspaper.

But do you want to know the sickest part of this whole story? Jethro was going to grad school to be a teacher. Elementary education. I saved like at least one poor kid from being molested, right?

Keith:

This past Halloween, I'm getting ready to leave a party and head back to the apartment I'm just waiting for my roommate with his friend from home. It appeared I was going home empty handed when two girls come up and ask to start taking pictures with us. Five minutes and little bullshit later and we convince these girls to come back with us.

We get back and things are looking good I've know got a cute chick in a strawberry shortcake costume back in my bedroom. Were messing around and I see she's wearing a ring, playing around I ask her if she's married, she tells me no it's a promise ring....to her father.

I assumed she was kidding and played it off. So we're making out and after probably 30 minutes of her dry humping the shit out of me I try to get down to business but she's not having any of it. I go into my bag of tricks but I'm still coming up empty handed. She must have sensed I'm getting frustrated and tells me "I'm not gonna have sex with you." I asked why and she tells me THE PROMISE RING. Well, she ended up keeping her promise and I ended up with some serious blue balls and friction burns. Oh and her friend who was in the other room with my roommate's friend turned him down because her friend was a virgin and she didn't want to seem like a whore.

I'm all for purity, but that promise ring thing makes it seem like the girl, frankly, is married to her Dad. And that makes me terribly uncomfortable.

Then again, promise rings work?! I'm off to go buy my kid a promise ring.

Eddie:

I was with this girl I was going out with & her friends at a local bar in Santa Barbara & I happened to be in love with one of the waitresses & she was showing signs of warming up to me. The girl I was going out with left to give one of her drunk friends a ride home but was returning. I started to talk with one of her drunk friends that remained and before you know it we are making out right there at the bar. It was late and not too crowded so she grabs me by the hand & leads me into the woman's restroom where she proceeds to blow me in front of the sink.

I am looking at myself in the mirror watching the back of her head thinking how great this is when suddenly the door opens & there was the waitress I was in love with. She gasped in horror, blowjob ended & the girl I was going out with returned just in time to see me coming out of the woman's restroom with her friend. Triple blocked.

Oh no! TIC TAC COCKBLOC!

Anonymous:

During my senior year of college, I had this huge crush on a friend of a friend. Lets call her Betty. Betty went to another school and occasionally came visit her high school friend to hang out and drink and what not. I would hang out with them and usually just end up gawking at her and making an ass out of myself because i didnt have the balls to ask her out. This probably went on for a good year. And then out of the blue, she actually asked me to her sorority semi-formal at her school, which was probably a good sign she was into me too. Score.

So on a Friday, the night before the semi-formal, i drove the 3 hours up to her school to party with Betty and her friends. We did dinner. We went to the bar. We went to a house party. And then around 3 or 4 am, we finally get back to her apartment. So now we're both beyond buzzed and we start hooking up. Betty becomes the aggressor and starts to go down on me. Nice.

Well a couple minutes later I hear her say . . . . "are you sleeping?" And thanks to an 8AM class, a 3 hour drive, and a plethora of beers, the truthful answer to that question was yes. Yes i was sleeping (beer #1 through beer #6? my energy increases linearly. Beer #7 and beyond? My sleepiness increases exponentially). Of course, thats not what I said. I cleverly responded with "ummmm . . . no", and she unsurprisingly didn't buy it and went to sleep herself. She wasn't offended enough to kick me out or ditch me as her date to the semi-formal the next night, but needless to say, that was the last action of a very awkward rest of the weekend.

Epilogue - over the last 5 years, I learned that my sleeping skills aren't just limited to oral pleasures, as I not once, but twice, fell asleep during sex (both times on bottom). Luckily it was with a long term girlfriend who knew my tendency to get sleepy during drunkiness, so she not only accepted it, but embraced it. So she let me sleep, and actually abused my body until she was properly satisfied, and then went to bed herself. Kudos to her.

Kudos indeed.

Nate:

At a bar/music venue with some friends. Found a girl I was attracted to. Conversed for most of the evening. After about 3 hours of what I thought was flirtatious banter, I nonchalantly ask her if she wanted to go back to my place.

"Can two people fit under a rock?"

I slunk away with my pride somewhere around my ankles.

Oh, good God. That is brutal. People, if you have rejections in your life as brutal as this, send them in. You shouldn't have to keep that pain to yourself.

I once introduced myself to a girl in a bar and the girl laughed in my face. Just laughed right in my face. It was so horrible that even her friend came over and apologized to me for it. I then tried hooking up with HER. I failed.

Adam:

A few summers ago, a buddy and I backpacked Europe for a month. This particular incident occurred in Prague. We went on a bar crawl, where you go to a few bars and then they dump you piss-drunk at some bar or another, in this case it's the basement of a larger bar.

My buddy and I met a pair of girls from Memphis, brunettes, and begin chatting them up. I have the better-looking of the two, who would actually be datable (if not for this story) and certainly worthy of a drunk hookup. Let's call her Maggie, which for all I remember could actually be her name.

Anyway, Maggie and I decide to go to the bathroom together, which means we walk around the corner from our friends and start making out on a bench. It's pretty intense for a bar makeout session, so I ask her if she wants to find a bathroom. We go upstairs where it's less crowded and Maggie goes into the ladies' room, checks to make sure nobody's in there, comes out and grabs me. Nice. We go into a stall and start going at it. Clothes start coming off, soon we're naked, I'm fingering her, about to go to town and she goes "Where's your condom?" FUCK.

We re-clothe and go join our friends. We have a couple more drinks and leave. It is decided that our two friends will go to our hostel, and Maggie and I will go to theirs. When we get there, some Aussies are drinking out back. She joins them for a minute while I go scouring the hostel for condoms. Success! I go back, get her to leave the Aussies and go back to her room. Well it turns out her room is one of those giant bunkrooms with like 100 people. Relatively luckily, she's on the top bunk in the corner. We get up there and I spend about 15 minutes rigging up the sheets as sort of curtains. I was proud of my work. We start going at it again. I go down on her for a while and I get the "kid-you're-in-the-game" tap on the shoulder. I roll over, pull out the condom, start putting it on, and she goes, "Wait, I can't." I go, "What do you mean?" She goes, "I have a boyfriend, and he's proposing when we get back." FUCK.

Oof. Double fail.

Mike:

It was my freshman year of college, about a month into the school year. I had been talking to this girl. We danced for a while and then went outside. I sat down on a crate, and sat on my lap, and we made out for a while, with her grinding on my raging boner. Score!

After a little while, she asked me to walk her back to her room. The whole time, I am putting my hookup game face on. She clearly had a lot more experience than I did, and I wanted to make sure I didn't come off as bumbling or inexperienced. (After reading that, is it any wonder I didn't have much experience?) Anyway, I'm going over scenarios in my mind to make sure I didn't screw this up. I was focused. I was ready.

We arrived at the dorm and got in the elevator. She lived on the top floor, so she pressed the button and as soon as the doors closed, she got really close to me and whispered, "Have you ever wanted to do something kinky in an elevator?"

It took me off guard. I was still thinking about what was going to happen when we got to the room. I didn't have time to process the question or the implications of my answer. My basic instinct took over and I answered honestly. "No, not really."

She immediately slides away from me, and the gravity of my mistake hits me right in the chest. At that moment, we arrived at her floor and walked to her room. "Well, goodnight," she told me. My heart sunk while my balls ached. I talked my way into her room, hoping to get her back in the mood, but to no avail. We slept arm in arm, my boner pressing into her hip, but she spurned each of my advances. The next day, I took her to dinner, hoping to salvage something, but it was too late. I had lost all sex appeal to her. I learned a valuable lesson that day: When it comes to hookups, be prepared for anything she throws your way.

WHY DID YOU SAY NO? MY GOD! YOU HAD HEAVEN IN THE PALM OF YOUR HAND!

I was watching "Archer" the other night and they had Archer's mom stranded on a shitty fishing boat that was named CHUM GUZZLER. That's a fucking win. Onto the letters.

Ashby:

Do you ever pull off the road when it's just fucking pouring rain?

It was like a switch went off when I hit my 30's and my body suddenly stopped producing whatever substance I needed to not be worried about possibly hydroplaning into a fucking gas tanker (testosterone? Please, God, no). I know it's sort of shameful to admit, but I sometimes get totally terrified driving in a storm, especially on the highway.

Last fall, there was a massive rainstorm here, and I was driving on a two-lane state highway (speed limit 55) at about 45-50 mph when some asshole in a Scion or some shit came blazing up behind me and flicked his brights a couple times as if he wanted me to speed up. I felt my heartbeat quadruple, and I pulled off the road in a panic. What's worse is that I had to just sit there for a solid minute after he passed so that my pulse could slow down.

Jesus, I think I should take a baby aspirin just thinking about it.

I've never pulled over for rain. It's one of those moves that make a good amount of sense, but I have way too much foolish pride to go through with it. Also, every man on a road trip is a slave to the desire to make good time. What did I do the trip in last time? Four hours? FUCK THAT, I'M BEATING IT. If I'm pulling over and adding precious minutes to my arrival time, it better be because there's a turtle about to crawl out of my ass, or because my bladder is about to burst into a thousand pieces, or because I developed a sudden urge for Taco Bell and MUST pull over should the Taco Bell sign appear. Pull over for rain? Waste precious minutes ensuring that I don't die? NEVER. Can't be done.

I've had those rain drives where you go along for two hours and the rain just doesn't ever let the fuck up. You're like, "Well, it can't possibly stay pouring like this forever." BUT IT DOES! You can feel your eyes begin to melt into your brain. You scoot up in your car seat to stay alert. You practically press your fucking face against the windshield. The relentless patter on the car roof beckons you to nod off and go skidding down an embankment. Those are times when it would make a modicum of sense to go ahead, admit defeat, and just pull over for a second to regain consciousness. But I never do. And that is because I am retarded.

Dan K:

Have you ever had an in-grown face hair? Are these things common among normal folk? I got my first one a few weeks ago — and I'm not talking your run of the mill pimple. When I dug this sucker out the first time my findings were so gruesome and bewildering that I repressed and almost forgot the incident entirely. Today I got another one, and this time I played for keeps. This fucking mutant strand of hair had the girth of refillable pencil lead. A single hair I tell you! What gives?

I don't get ingrown hairs very often, but I get really fucking excited when it happens. Because, first off, I get to dig into my own skin with tweezers. It's like mining my own body, which is an odd yet gratifying feeling. Secondly, there's no telling what I might find. I'm always SHOCKED at long the hair is. I mean, you dig in there, you get a grip, and you hoist the fucker out, and it is INCHES long. Looks like the end of a coat hanger after an abortion. It's unreal. That's been growing in my body this whole time? Holy fuck. That is like the tentacle of an alien.

The thick hairs are even more disturbing. I feel like I'm turning into "The Fly" when that happens. I remember Geena Davis seeing a hair on Jeff Goldblum's back right after he gets out of the transporter, and she like, "Wow, that's really coarse!" And shit goes way fucking downhill from that moment on.

I also enjoy getting that little squiggle of pus erupting out. So cute. It's like pasta! Pusta!

Justice:

I've got a big fireplace that'll warm 2 or 3 rooms, depending on how big I can get the fire. But, what made this fire particularly awesome was the fact that I had just spent a couple days cleaning out my home office and had a ton of old bank statements that I was intending to get rid of. Rather than shred them and then toss them (as a one-time victim of identity theft I am ultra-paranoid about it happening again), we decided to use the old statements as kindling. There is nothing more fun than throwing official-looking documents into a fire. Makes you feel like a super-villain. "Well, this document could save the orphanage. Too bad it'll never get to the authorities."

That is awesome. We gets cards for birthdays and shit and I always want to toss them into the fire and pretend I'm a guy trying to get over a really fantastic ex-girlfriend. OUR LOVE IS NOTHING MORE NOW THAN FINE ASH. I never got a chance to do that when I was younger. Just milk a fucking terrible breakup for all the drama and pathetic self-pity I could possibly muster. That would be fun as shit.

I can't get the Mrs. to go along with this, because she says it'll send a message to the kids that they can just throw anything in the fireplace. It's a good point, but still. There's nothing more enjoyable than throwing shit in a fireplace that isn't supposed to go into the fireplace, like the following items:

• Old wreaths
• Photos
• Clementine orange crates
• Magazines
• Hookers

The list is endless. I may be 33 years old, but I will never stop enjoying the act of burning shit. It's intoxicating. One day, when I have a billion dollars and the kids have moved out, I'm buying an outdoor fireplace. One of those big brass bowls you can stick on a patio. Then I'm going to drunk every night and just throw random shit into it. I can't wait. I'd buy a time machine now to get to that point. FIRE IS AWESOME.

Sean:

Our office services have thoughtfully equipped our restrooms with those mondo 20,000+ sheet rolls of TP. Don't get me wrong, I'm all about having a plethora of single ply tissue at my disposal (especially after that 12:30 burrito) but the rub here is when you get dealt a roll with an uneven cardboard tube circumference. This may not pose a problem for normal people who gingerly gather the toilet paper a few sheets at a time, but I like to give it a good "price is right" spin so the streaming ribbon of TP doubles on itself for optimal hand and cheek coverage. This, in turn, causes a calamitous "clunka-clunka-clunk" as the roll enters a death spin, garnering much unwanted attention for your exit of the restroom. And the thing is, you have to wait until all the fucking sheets are gone! What's that, like 3 weeks? I'm not going to change my routine for a bum roll, can't we invent some kind of suspension system for these goliath toilet paper rolls?

Even worse, sometimes the roll gets so deformed that the roll stops mid-pull, so the TP instantly tears. It doesn't even tear at the perforated edge. Just a little piddly shit patch the size of your thumbprint. I've had some of those giant rolls not budge at all, then I have to dig into the giant plastic roll holder with my hand and painstaking roll the TP manually, like I'm Sisyphus pushing the boulder up the mountain. That's hard work!

A lot of those holders are cheaply made, so even if you get a relatively perfect roll and inner tube, the sides of the plastic case may press too hard against the sides of the giant roll, making it hard to pull. Or the TP is so thin and cheap that it tears from the simple act of pulling.

This isn't even the domain of giant rolls. Sometimes, I go into a shitter, and it's a normal roll of cheap toilet paper. But the holder is some piece of shit metal thing where the axle snaps into the side of the holder, only the metal gets warped and the fucking roll is frozen in place. I can't even roll it by hand.

These are tragic situations in the shitter, because like Sean I like giving the toilet paper a firm tug. LOOK AT HOW STRONG I AM! You should at least be able to walk into a public shitter and have a chance to do that.

/secretly wastes more toilet paper than the average woman

Bill Rawles:

When are you too old to drink chocolate milk? And when are you too old to make your own chocolate milk by mixing in Hershey's syrup?

Never. My kid will only drink milk if I mix Ovaltine into it. And she drinks whole milk, so what I usually do is mix a full cup of Ovaltine, drink the shit out of it, and then refill it halfway with a new batch. When you spend your whole 20's drinking skim milk, if any milk at all, that return to chocolate milk is fucking tremendous. God dammit, it tastes good.

When I was a kid, I used to put an unholy amount of Hershey's Syrup in my milk. Just an obnoxious amount. A quarter of the fucking bottle. The milk was black by the time I was finished. And I used to purposely leave it somewhat unmixed so that I knew I had a thick batch of pure syrup awaiting me at the bottom of the glass. Fat kids are creative like that.

Cameron:

When making a pizza yourself, do you actually leave a crust, or like me, do you pile toppings all the way to the edge only to have them slide off as soon as the cheese starts melting? This leads to me having to clean my oven every time I make a pizza, yet for some reason I can't stop doing it.

Parchment paper, my friend. Buy parchment paper. It will save your fucking life. Everything I stick in the oven now has a sheet of parchment paper underneath it. You'll never have to scrub a fucking cookie sheet clean again. It's glorious. Plus, I like unspooling the parchment and pretending that I'm about to draft an old historical document. WE THE PEOPLE and what have you. "And ye on the second day yon every June, a wench shall bring forth tankards of lager for all ye townsfolke."

I've gotten better at making my own pizza. Two things improve it immeasurably. One: Drizzle olive oil on top before you stick it in the oven. Two: Buy a Microplane and grate fresh parmesan reggiano over the thing before you stick it in the oven. It makes it extra nice.

Stan:

Would you ever consider giving it a whirl with Roxxxy the sex robot or would that be way too weird?

If I were single and desperate? And it was gift? Sure. May as well. Somebody's gotta test the sexbot. May as well be me.

When I was in dipshit prep school, we had a Secret Santa thing every December in which we all exchanged gifts, only the gifts were supposed to be cruel and spiteful. I gave one kid a Tupperware filled with my own shit once. You get the idea. Anyway, some guys pitched in and bought some kid an inflatable sex doll. The kind with hole for sticking it in the mouth and anus and all that. Anyway, the kid who got it was insulted that he would be considered so desperate, so he immediately tossed the dummy on the floor of my room. And I kept it there, because I didn't particularly care about the state of my floor. Prep school dorm room floors are disgusting like that: sex dolls, old food, piss, spittle. Nothing gets thrown out. It's a garbage dump with a carpet underneath.

Now, I never had sex with the doll. And trust me, I'd gladly tell you if I had. I mean, I wrote in a published book that I banged a peach. It's not like I have anything to hide here. I didn't even bother to try fucking the doll, because the doll was extremely cheap and rubbing your penis against it was sure to be as painful as rubbing it against the inside of a balloon. And it didn't even look like a girl. It looked like a creepy mime doll or something. It wasn't like it turned you on it if you looked at it.

So I left it there and didn't pay it much heed. Cut to after Winter Break. My folks drive me up to school, help me take my shit up to my room, open the door, and there's Peggy Poundmouth sitting on the floor.

Now, if you were a parent, and you saw this, and your son told you he never actually used it, would you believe him? Of course you wouldn't. You'd assume the kid spent 20 hours a day painting that thing for all it's worth. And so, for the past two decades, my folks have been under the mistaken assumption that I spent a majority of my time at school banging the shit out of this doll. BUT I DIDN'T! I SWEAR! I WAS TOO BUSY JACKING IT IN CLASS! IT'S TRUE, MOM!

Brian:

Have you ever had Famous Dave's Spicy Pickles? They are sweet pickles, which I usually don't like, put in spicy brine (which I normally love). The sweet/spicy ratio is a mind fuck.

I'm an odd human being in that I only like pickles on a McDonald's hamburger and in no other venue. I can't think of another food that has such specific limits on it in my repertoire, except for maybe raw tomatoes (love them in salsa, hate them in all other venues). No clue why I'm like this. I wish I just liked EVERY food. I hate having to worry about whether or not some fuckface put mayo on my sandwich.

JimmyFax:

I live in NYC, so I take the subway every day and those fuckers stop between stations ALL THE TIME. Each and every time this happens, I always immediately scan the entire subway car I'm in and picture which girls I would savage in which order if we were stranded there for the rest of eternity.

Then I scan the car of the dudes and rank them, relative to myself, in how effective a leader they would be for our group in this post-apocalyptic future I'm imagining (age, physical stature, ability to communicate in English* and intelligence* are all factors). Then, finally, I cross-rank what dudes might be able to sidle up to some of the sweeter chicks first and try to figure out which chick I would actually end up with. Obviously with this part, I try to filter out blatant homosexuals from both side of the gender equation.

I have to say, I tend to always put myself very near the top of the lists in both "possible leader" and "possible mates" categories. It's always awesome when I'm the clear #1 in both, but equally brutal when I realize that I'm in a car where I'd probably be ending up with the chunky brunette that doesn't brush her hair.

A long time ago, I went to the theater and saw a piece of shit Stallone movie called Daylight. If you've seen that movie, you know the premise is that the Lincoln Tunnel has been sealed at both ends, and the people trapped inside are trying to find a way out. Any time I enter any sort of underground tunnel, in my car or on the subway, I immediately think of this movie and picture myself having to lead a group of people out of a manhole with my trusty trunk flare. Then the "Judging Amy" chick and I go at it.

Then there's that fear that you WON'T find a way out. That you'll be trapped underground forever and forced to create your own sickening and inbred moleperson society. I saw a trailer once for a documentary called "Dark Days" about people who live in the NYC subway tunnels. There's a small number of them, and they've been living down there for God knows how long. Completely freaks me out. I used to go down into any NYC Subway station and imagine one of the molepeople running out of the tunnel and coming to feast on my brains.

By the way, like JimmyFax, I would completely envision myself as the alpha dog of a stranded subway car. The truth, of course, is that I would stand there like a fucking moron and do virtually anything anyone around me told me to do. We got stuck in the snow the other day on our road. Three people came to help. I ended up nearly running one of them over and launching shovelfuls of snow at the other two by accident. In emergencies, my IQ drops 85 points.

Collin:

As a lifelong resident of Syracuse you missed a key opportunity this past weekend. You need to couple you 'milking of shoveling' with a beer for the joyful 'shoveling beer.'

It's the winter cousin of the "mower beer," I would guess.

David:

Our Engineer's Pub at my Uni has head rests installed at each urinal as per the diagram... and no they're not nasty because no one pisses that high, they're the future.

Yeah, but then you got communal foreheads all touching that thing before it's cleaned once or twice a day. You ever seen the foreheads of some guys? They're repulsive. Sweat. Hair. Blackheads. Within an hour, your own forehead would be stuck to the thing like flypaper.

Mike:

I'm starting to shop for an engagement ring for my lady. Any advice? (Other then get the damn thing on her finger as soon as humanly possible?) Thanks.

Yeah, ask her what kind of engagement ring she wants. Most women are nice enough to accept any ring you give them. If your lady throws your ring back in your face and demands something else, you probably don't want to marry her.

All that said, it doesn't mean you SHOULD just get her any ring you come across. Most couples, before a proposal, have talked about getting married. All around you, there are probably friends and relatives who are also in the act of getting married or engaged. Always ask your lady if she likes the ring your friend's new wife has or whatever. She'll always give you enough hints for you to figure out what to buy. You can even ask her cold about what kind of ring she wants. Don't go in blind. Having an idea of what she wants helps narrow the search considerably.

Also, go to Tiffany's or some outlandishly expensive place and ask the clerk for advice. They know their shit, much more than I did. They'll give you some pamphlet about the four C's and certification and all that crap. Then you can figure out what looks good and buy the ring someplace much cheaper. I went to Tiffany's and did this. The clerk knew immediately that I was a cheapskate and a moron.

ME: What about a ring with briquettes on the side?

CLERK: You mean baguettes?

ME: Yeah, the ones with the biscuits.

CLERK: Well, this one is an emerald cut with BAGUETTES on the sides.

ME: Oh, that looks nice. Okay.

CLERK: Should I ring this one up?

ME: Uh… duh… well, lemme just think about it for a little bit.

CLERK: I can hold this one.

ME: Uh… durr… there's no need for that. IHAVETOGONOWGOODBYE.

Justin:

Two summers ago I was driving across the country on a monster road trip, and as I'm driving through Nevada at night, I passed several signs on a highway in Nevada that said "OPEN RANGE" and had a cow symbol on them. So apparently it's not required that farmers in Nevada fence off their cattle from the highway. I spent miles and miles seriously worried that a cow was going to wander out in front of me and I was going to smash into it at 70 miles an hour. Have you ever had to drive through OPEN RANGE territory?

No, but that would terrify me. I mean, I understand why it would be hard for some Nevada rancher to fence off 560,000 acres of land or whatever, but hitting a cow would be thoroughly unpleasant. Look at this video of a car clipping a fucking cow.

Tell me you wouldn't double shit your pants at the sight of a cow springing up in the middle of your shit.

President Camacho:

Have you ever been using a public urinal and noticed a pube just sitting on top of the urinal? How in the hell does it get up there?

Because I put it there. JUST TO MESS WITH YOU.

John:

What if I'm ever sent back in time a few years, and the only way I can use my knowledge of the future and assume a normal life is to kill the version of me that's living in the past? How would I do it? Would I even have the guts to go through with it? I'd have the ultimate advantage of knowing the exact routine of past-me and when and where I'd be at all times. I'd also know all of past-me's weaknesses and how to exploit them. All of this has instilled me with the irrational fear that a future version of myself could be around any corner waiting to eliminate me.

But that makes no sense. If future you killed present you, there wouldn't be a present you. Much more terrifying is the prospect that someone close to you in the future will be sent to kill you.

I would be a particularly easy mark. I'm easy to spot, due to my size. I'm slow. My movements are predictable. And I'm completely oblivious to anything going on outside of my own head. My wife could be five feet away in a department store, screaming ta me to get my attention, and the hamster wheel in my head is still just spinning round and round, completely unaware. You could kill me in an instant.

I always wonder if people I know are spies, True Lies style. Especially neighbors. I have two neighbors I never see. They say they're "Doctors" who are "on call". I say they're in the Czech Republic as we speak, sipping martinis and shanking ex-KGB mercenaries for precious microfilm.

Pete:

Dude, have you seen this show "Bait Car" on TruTV? This has to be the most racist show on TV of all time. Undercover cops in LA run out of an Escalade and leave the keys in the ignition in neighborhoods containing about 0 white people. The show is entertaining for about 5 minutes then you just feel sad for the poor bastards getting bamboozled. If you're going to get into a running car and steal it - NO ESCALADES.

That is WRONG and I don't like it. That's worse than Chris Hansen dangling altar boy ass out there for repressed pederasts. If you leave your Escalade running in a shitty part of town, you DESERVE to have it stolen. In fact, if you have an Escalade, you deserve to have it stolen regardless of whether or not you've left it idling. Filling up a monthly arrest quota by sticking out a bait car? THASS RAYCESS.

Brian:

I work in Chicago and during the spring when the snow begins to melt off the buildings they post signs that say "Caution: Falling Ice". The first thing I always do is look up…..why? So I can get giant icicle in the eye? I try not to, but yet every time I do.

Some of the houses in my neighborhood have giant icicles hanging off of them. They look like fucking stalactites. I keep waiting for one to come undone and spike some poor guy right in the head. Never happens. Speaking of which:

Matt:

After living in California for my whole life, I just moved somewhere that it snows a lot, and after seeing massive amounts of icicles, I couldn't help but think: Is there a more perfect murder weapon? If I was gonna kill someone I would definitely do it with an icicle.

Yeah, but icicles are more fragile than you realize. They're extremely brittle, and the tip breaks off at the slightest touch. Bruce Willis killed a dude with an icicle in Die Hard 2, but that was a movie, so I can't account for its true legitimacy as a deadly weapon.

I'd want that plastic gun John Malkovich made in In The Line Of Fire. The one with no metal pieces in it. Any time I board a plane now, I always think to myself, BUT WHAT IF SOMEONE BROUGHT ON THE MALKOVICH GUN?

Chris:

For inefficient use of hygiene products, shaving cream has nothing on dental floss - I wrap that sucker twenty times around my fingers and only use 1/16th of a inch to actually floss (I only floss right before I go to the dentist so while the per-use efficiency is terrible, the per-day efficiency of the floss is still pretty good)

Use flossers. I fucking hate real floss. Granted, I enjoy winding string around my fingertip until it turns purple. That's a fun thing to do and I used to do it when I was a kid all the time. I didn't even floss after doing it. One time, I wrapped my whole finger and pretended I had a mummy finger. MUMMY FINGER GRAHHHHHHHHH!

That said, flossing with regular floss is shit. Little flossers prevent floss waste, and you get that toothpick on the other side for digging in to your gums and finding bits of old food. Sometimes, I get steak. It's delicious.

HALFTIME!

Mike:

The wife and I have been married for almost nine years and are thinking about having our first kid. I'm mostly excited about the idea but some of your comments and comments by other emailers have me a little worried. What do you think? Bad idea?

Nah. Don't let us fool you. Half the fun of having kids is bitching about them.

The hard truth is that kids are fucking awesome. THEY BABBLE! THEY LOOK LIKE YOU! CHICKS DIG THEM! THEY SAY STUPID SHIT THAT'S FUNNY! The pluses far outweigh the minuses. Even when having kids SUCKS, and it does sometimes, it's worth it. Sometimes, I'll have to go in to feed the kid at 4AM or something, and I'll be sitting there in the dark, and my eyes will have adjusted to the dark, and the kid will finish eating, and he'll rest his head on my shoulder. Then, he'll pop up and give me a look. He'll just stare right at me. And looking at the kid in that moment… it's something. Like someone took a piece of your soul and crafted it into another living being. It's mindblowing.

Besides, you have nothing better to do. After a few years, you have nothing to talk about with the wife. But now, the Mrs. and I can go out to dinner and spend the whole night bitching about the kids. It's great.

One other thing: pictures. You'll love staring at pictures of your kids. Pictures are better than kids, because they don't make noise. Sometimes, the kid will be in the room annoying me, and I'll grab a picture of them, completely ignoring the actual kid. "Look at how cute that kid is. So smiley. So quiet. Much nicer than the insane midget currently clinging to my leg."

Ryan:

Taken at Southdale Mall in Edina, MN. Fuckers.

Fucking Edina. It's like a Range Rover parking lot.

Waz:

Am I the only one annoyed with college alumni magazines? As fellow Colby alum, you probably know what I'm talking about. In the "class notes" section people write in about what's going on in their lives, marriages, kids etc. That's fine. But I hate the people who write in just to remind everyone how awesome they are. I am not impressed with your latest promotion or your summers on Nantucket.

I get an inferiority complex when I read those things. Most of my other classmates have done something useful with the decade they've spent out of school. They're like, real adults and shit. "Dr. Scottie Maxwell wrote in from Kenya to let everyone know his UNICEF project to cure malaria is currently making fantastic progress. They hope to abolish malaria and cure seven different strains of HIV within the next two years." Meanwhile, I write online about wiping my ass.

TK:

Don't you want to kill whoever invented red pistachios? I find them to be the most annoying thing ever. Regular pistachios are a great snack but adding that fucking red dye makes them so horrible. It doesn't enhance the flavor of the pistachio in any way. The only thing they add is that wonderful red dye that stains your hands and mouth and is impossible to get out.

Then why buy them? Are people putting these out at a dinner party you went to? Why would anyone do that when there are perfectly fine undyed pistachios available at any supermarket or convenience store?

Magic Titty:

I'm surprised you never mentioned the hero sequence where you're walking with your girl/wife, and some guy pulls a gun and tries to rob you. You act pretty cool, and even say something vaguely condescending to him, hoping to incite his ire. So he walks closer to you, trying to put the gun to your head to raise the threat level. BOOM. You reflexively jab his forearm upward and wrestle the gun from his hand and/or him to the ground.

Then, you either hold the gun to him while your newly 'even more attracted to you' girl/wife dials 911, or you simply let him go, with an unspoken warning, and drop the gun down the sewer like a world-weary badass.

Yeah, saving your woman is a huge fantasy issue. Sometimes, I imagine coming home to my house only to find terrorists have broken in and bound my family to a chair. Then, I must crawl down the chimney, dispatch the terrorists, free my family, then make frantic love to the Mrs. I picture this at least nine times a week.

One time, I was walking in New York with my wife when a 16-year-old kid jumped out in front of her and screamed AHHHHHHH, scaring her to death. He laughed, and this is the ONLY time in my personal history where I have reacted on impulse and done something mildly aggressive. I pushed the little shit into a nearby pizza parlor and grabbed his lapel. I was SHITFACED.

ME: Was that supposed to be fucking funny, you little piece of shit?

YOU: No.

ME: DON'T YOU EVER FUCKING DO THAT AGAIN, OR I WILL FUCKING RUIN YOU.

YOU: I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

ME: FUCKING ASSHOLE.

Then I walked out. The kid apologized to my wife again as I walked out. I felt like fucking Shaft after this. I have NEVER before or since bullied someone and succeeded, because I am a pussy at heart. I still think about that incident at least once a week. I now walk the streets praying for very thin teenagers to try and jump out and scare my wife.

Spencer:

I gave my girlfriend a trip to Vegas than when she returned, she proceeded to tell me she had a date with a co-worker and just wanted to be friends. I was devastated. To make things worse, I remembered I had bought her tickets to go see Jay-Z. I have no desire to go to the concert, but she does, so the question I…

Fuck her. Either go or burn those tickets in a fucking fireplace. And stop buying women expensive shit.

Kevin:

In our gym all our treadmills and ellipticals face a big mirror. This certainly helps in looking at boobies on the ellipticals, but mostly its awkward looking at people. One day after looking at all these people I started to wonder what the hell do they think about all this time? When I run on a treadmill, 10% of the time I'm thinking that I am winning the World Series for the Cubs in Game 7, and the other 90% of the time I
imagine I am the lead singer of the band that is playing on my iPod. Does everybody have these ridiculous fantasies to get them through a workout?

I do. I am a ROCK GOD when I'm on the elliptical. I've also, in the past, used the angles those mirrors to look at other people's asses without blatant staring. Like, say every wall in the gym has a mirror. You can look at the side of one mirror and get a reflection of a reflection of ass. And the owner of the ass doesn't know you've scoped out that angle. It's awesome.

I envision myself as a rock star on tour. I also picture myself as the one person who walks into "American Idol" and blows everyone away by being a TRUE rock star. All these other people here are fucking phonies. I AM THE SECOND COMING OF FUCKING COBAIN. And I don't even watch "American Idol". It makes no sense.

Keith:

At what age in life do you tell yourself, that unless you quit your job and do a couple of cycles, you're never going to have the body builder physique and the goal is not to end up on the Biggest Loser?

Usually happens after college, when a job and marriage takes up all your free time. Back at school, there was time to work out three hours a day if you felt like it. Kids at school used to hang out in the weight room for fucking hours. Some of them didn't even lift anything. But you have that kind of time. Once the kids come, you quickly realize that much free time is gone for fucking ever.

Tim:

What is your opinion on people who sign their e-mails with only one initial. I think it is incredibly pretentious on the whole but I make exceptions for the letters X, Z and Q for no reason other than I think they look cool and remind me of comic book characters.

The real problem is that emails don't have to be signed, because the subject line tells you PRECISELY who it is send you the message. There's no need for any salutation. It adds a dose of formality that makes you look like a tightass. I've gotten emails from friends, and they're written like actual letters. "Dear Andrew" and all that. Completely freaks me out. This is email. Talk like a normal person. That's what email is for. It's to replace talking.

Kenny:

Why don't they make Bailey's Irish Cream without alcohol, so I can enjoy it in the morning without having to go to work drunk? It's simply better than anything else you can put in coffee.

Why is the alcohol a problem? The real question you should be asking is why they don't make regular cream WITH alcohol.

I'm of the mind that, unless you like White Russians and Black Russians, no one over the age of 25 ever needs to drink Bailey's or Kahlua. That's the shit you drink when you're 14 and you're too much of a pussy to have acquired a taste for scotch.

Jeff:

When I was in grade school in New Orleans, they always served us milk in small 6oz bags. I'm not sure if it has something to do with the fact that the city resembles a 3rd world and maybe we were subsisting off of army rations. Anyways, it's not just Canadians.

That's grossly unfair. If you're a kid, the only drink that should come in bags is Caprisun. I could drink 50 Caprisun bags in a single sitting. They don't even have to be cold.

We got cartons of milk at my school, but they had always been sitting out for hours at a time. Thus, you'd get a sweaty box of warm-as-doodoo milk. I'd take the bagged milk if I could receive assurances of its coldness. I need my milk cold enough to cause my lips to shatter.

Chris:

I just ate a bag of chips in one sitting, and not a 2 ounce bag or anything like that. We're talking a full 16 ounce thick-cut salt-and-pepper sack of greasy goodness. The question is - should I be proud of this, or ashamed? My wife is looking at me not with the combination of awe and lust I'd hoped for but rather a mixture of horror and disbelief. Still, huge bag. Thoughts?

Well, I for one am proud of you. Proud and jealous. You didn't even hide the bag in the garbage can. You crushed that bag for all to see. Stand tall, good sir.

Paul:

Why does NBC continually insist on referring to the site of the 2006 Olympics as Torino? They took place in Turin. Did they refer to 2004's host city as Athina? No; so why start with Turin?

Because Italian is the one language where people get a real hardon for native pronunciation. Watch Giada's show sometime. In between exposing her heaving breasts, she over pronounces every fucking syllable of every Italian word. "And now you add your REE-A-COAT-AHHHHHH cheese." Easy, people. You sound like you're in an Olive Garden commercial. (Flubby would like to note that Giada was born in Rome and is, you know, actually Italian. A fair point.)

Ryan:

The remotes for any hotel TV are just a waste of time. The delay on most of those things from button-press to television response is a solid 4 seconds, which in the global and eternal sphere of things isn't long, but when you're trying to turn down the volume or turn the channel off of "The View" feels like an eternity.

Also, the hotel TV always resets to the fucking hotel in-house channel when you turn the TV off, and that channel is always 75 decibels louder than the other channels. You could rouse a corpse with the audio feed from these stations.

I hate these stations. No one watches them. Ever. No one sits down and says, "Hey, this looks good! Let me watch this for the next 75 minutes." No, it's always WHERE THE FUCK IS ESPN AND HOW QUICKLY CAN I GET TO IT?

Mark:

My wife does this with photos: I need to see them on the digital camera, then on the computer after she uploads them, then again when the prints arrive in the mail.

Mine too. THEY'RE THE SAME PHOTOS. WHY DO I NEED TO SEE THEM AGAIN?

Eric:

I had an ex who performed the "sneak into the bathroom while I'm showering" move on me, ripped the curtain open and yelled "BOO". She scared the shit out of me (I have the same nightmare you do) and ran off laughing. I proceeded to storm out of the shower completely naked (obviously) and covered in a mix of soap, shampoo, and water and proceeded to pin her to the floor in the living room and dry myself off on her (that last part sounds more sexual than it was).

You were justified. I fucking hate people jumping out and scaring me like that. I get unreasonably pissed after the fact.

My old boss, who I otherwise really like, had this thing at the office where every day, out of the blue, he'd take a ruler and smack it against the file cabinet, just to scare the piss out of everyone. One time, I threw a mug at him. He didn't quibble with the reaction. I hate that shit.

NBK:

I thought you guys may have a special place for the 'I personally suck at life, but make up for it by rooting for diverse geographic sporting champions'. via Blues/Red Wings game on Versus 2/9/10.

Oh, what a piece of shit.

Mike:

Do you know of any surefire hiccup remedies that don't involve alcohol?

Hold your breath as long as you can. Exhale very slowly. Inhale very quickly. Repeat.

Anon:

When I had fire warden training for a New York office building a few months ago, a former fire captain told us that most elevators these days run in tracks in the elevator shaft. If for some reason the cables in an elevator were to snap, you would descend two floors, then a safety mechanism in the tracks would stop you from falling further. He also said that elevator travel is one of the safest forms of travel in the world.

Well, that kills the fantasy now, doesn't it?

Robert:

This crossed my mind as I was perusing Sportsbook.com and unwittingly losing $50 on the Colts (fuck you Hank Baskett). Several of the prop bets for the Super Bowl were in regards to how many times the television broadcast would show Archie Manning or that whore Kim Kardashian, giving an over/under for each person. If you were the director of the broadcast, couldn't you place a HUGE bet on the over/under and win yourself a big score?

Yeah, I don't get that either. They do that with Oscar wins too. If you were a PriceWaterhouseCoopers exec, wouldn't you bet a large but not suspicious amount on the winners if you KNEW them? I fucking would. I'd be the Tim Donaghy of men who carry around Oscar envelopes in metal attache cases.

Farbo:

My 2-year-old is obsessed with showering, and he loves showering with me. The other day, I was shampooing (my eyes were closed) and I felt a tiny hand around my manhood. I looked down, and he was smiling, and shouted, "Daddy's peepee!" Is that wrong? I didn't get any wood, FYI.

Nah. At some point, you get over yourself and realize that, with babies, bits get touched. You have to wash your baby's penis. Your kid will stare at your junk when you pee. It's just one of those things. It's easy to go nuts and be like ZOMG MY SON IS GIVING ME A HANJ! But I think you're more mature than that. OR ARE YOU? BABY HANJ BABY HANJ!

Chris:

Have you ever been sitting down somewhere (at a desk, driving, etc) and you rip a fart that somehow maneauvers up around and past your ballsack? It happens to me all the time and it is always oddly delightful. Also, what would you suggest I call that when it happens?

"The Submersible."

Dank:

I had the misfortune of going to a catholic elementary school and was subjected to many odd regulations. One of the more odd rules was that during recess, we weren't allowed to go back inside the building, not even to use the bathroom. So when nature inevitably came calling, we weren't allowed back inside, so I'd sit down on the ground just so I wouldn't poop myself by making any unnecessary movements. What I found was that by sitting on the sun-warmed pavement, the horrible feeling of having to poop would go away in a minute or two and would buy me at least another fifteen minutes of not having to poop. I told all my friends about this 'miracle cure' and before I knew it, every boy on the playground would be sitting on the warm pavement when they had to crap. Trust me: one day, this will save you from crapping your pants in public.

Yeah, but it's February. What if I have to avoid shitting my pants now?

The pavement is such now that I'll drop something on the pavement under the car, and I'll just leave it there because I know there's no way to retrieve it without taking a knee and getting the knee of my jeans covered in mud and slushy shit. No poop deterrent there.

Chase:

I was going through open mailbag and saw the post about zombies. The idea of staking out a stadium doesn't have shit on my place. Motherfuckin Wal-Mart distribution center. Let's just look at we got going here. In order of importance (except for the outsourcing at the end): booze? Check. Prescription drugs? Cha-Ching! Guns? Boom goes the dynamite!!! Food? Check. Bad ass Electronics plus video games and movies? Hell fucking check.

If there is no zombie war, that would also be a great place to take hostages. Give it some real consideration. Arm yourself, walk in, take a few hostages, and live like a Branch Davidian for a month. That could be awesome. All the female hostages might get Stockholm Syndrome and fall in love with you. I'd totally hijack the place if I were you.

FACT: Any store or bank I walk into, I immediately visualize a man with a gun running in and taking hostages. I know damn well that, should I ever be a hostage, I would be shot because I would ask to go to the bathroom so much. They'd Daniel Pearl me in five seconds flat.

Arkansas Fred:

Are you terrible at cutting Saran Wrap too? Do you always end up with either way too much or embarrassingly little? Is this a guy thing? Or am I an idiot? Likely both?

It horrible. I can't cut it for shit, and I always end up having to pull the last part off the roll, giving me this distended piece of plastic shit on the end.

Furthermore, my wife goes to wrap a plate or a bowl, the Saran Wrap clings to like a fucking koala bear. When I the EXACT same thing, the wrap doesn't stick at all. Falls right off and blows away on to the floor. Or the shit double over and sticks to itself before I've even reached the bowl. Fucking Saran Wrap. MAKE ME LOOK BAD WILL YOU?!

Tom:

Why not make a urinal that has one of those targets like you see at a carnival/boardwalk with the water pistol? Besides being highly entertaining, hitting the target should reduce any splash back. Think about this setup at a sporting venue. You have the urinals with targets all spread out along a wall and above each urinal is some sort of gauge. A line of guys step up, there is some sort of starting buzzer, and then the race is on. Besides the possibility of winning and being crowned champion of that bunch of dudes, it should speed up the whole bathroom process in general.

Speed it up? Good God, I couldn't handle that pressure. It would take me WEEKS to get a stream out.

Matt:

My roommate decided he wanted to cook dinner for me and the other guy we live with last Tuesday. He has never done this before. Well apparently he decided to prepare the raw chicken, not wash his hands and touch everything in our fucking apartment. Now only me and the other roommate have had the fucking ebola virus living in our large intestines for 3 days. My question is whether or not I should shit on his pillow. PS I wrote this on the toilet.

Raw chicken gives you salmonella. You need to go to a hospital. THEN shit on his pillow.

Andrew:

What is the threshold level of fart strength before it becomes socially acceptable to acknowledge what just happened to a stranger in a bathroom?

Never. Ever. You have to take it. That's just fair. Otherwise, men would become self-conscious about farting in a public bathroom, then they'd let a silent bomb go off in the office instead, and then terror would reign. You don't talk in the bathroom.

There is nothing worse than being in a public bathroom, taking a nice quiet shit, when two assholes who know each other barge in and decide to have the longest fucking bro-chat in the history of bro-chats right there in the bathroom. "DUDE, DID YOU FUCK HER?" "YEAH BRAH! SHE WAS FAT BUT I TOTALLY FUCKED HER ANYWAY! SHEAH!"

And today, we end with a GREAT MOMENT IN CAUGHT MASTURBATING HISTORY:

Sean:

I have an interesting high school story for you. It begins in English class in 11th grade (1998). It was a slow day and the teacher had granted us a reading day (basically shut the fuck up and leave her alone).

I was sitting towards the back of the class reading a book. All of the sudden the girl in the row next to me taps me and another guy in the row and points to the guy in front of her and says he just got finished jerking off. I immediately look at him and notice he appears to be sleeping with his head on his desk. I tell her she is full of it and go back to what I was doing.

She insists to both of us that he was definitely jacking it. Of course this news starts to spread around the classroom like wildfire. Out of nowhere the suspect gets up and walks out of class.

The young lady who noticed it all proceeds to explain to everyone how he had his hand down his pants and would repeatedly look over his shoulder at her (she had large breasts) while jerking it. The class is in an uproar at this point and the teacher is wondering what all the commotion is about. No one had the heart to tell her. A few minutes later the bell for lunch rings and within 20 minutes the entire school has beard about the jerk session that occurred in English class.

Apparently after lunch one of the administrators walked into the classroom and had to explain to the teacher what had happened and remove the desk where the guy had been sitting. He was suspended for three days for leaving class without permission. He came back after suspension and lasted a couple of days before dropping out.

A bit of news before we get to the letters today. First off, I'm rechristening the Deadspin mailbag the Deadspin Funbag. It makes sense for what we do here. Secondly, you don't want funbags unless they come in pairs. That goes without saying. So I'm expanding the mailbag to twice a week. Not splitting. Doubling. First funbag runs on Tuesday. Second one runs in the old 2:20 Jamboroo slot on Thursdays. Believe me, we've got more than enough material to cover it. So make room for those funbags, children. Now, the letters:

John:

Do you ever throw something in the garbage and then strategically move other trash to prevent anyone else from seeing whatever embarrassing thing you just threw away? Candy bar wrappers are one of my most popular items that require this move because I'm positive my wife would be pissed if she knew I had a candy bar. Then again, she'd probably be more pissed if she found out that I was pathetic enough to move an old envelope and orange peel in order to obstruct the view of my Twix wrapper.

Yes, absolutely I do that. I do it with candy bar wrappers because, as John said, the wife will give me a dirty look. That's a look you never want to see. It makes you feel like a fucking kindergartener. "Oh, Drew. Drew. You had ANOTHER 100 Grand bar? Oh, you big fat husband of mine." I can't take that scrutiny. I want to enjoy my candy bar free from judgment. I'M ONLY HUMAN. MAYBE YOU CAN RESIST CRISPED RICE FOR THAT LONG BUT I CAN'T! AREN'T YOU JUST POLLY FUCKING PERFECT?!

I also make it a point to occasionally bury beer cans under other garbage so that it looks like I had less beer than I consumed in actuality. Look! Only three cans are visible! I couldn't have had that whole six-pack! The other three cans were clearly stolen by some sort of invisible elephant.

This is also a strategy I deploy when working in any office. Let's say there's a candy dish sitting out. Now, I am a fat person, so I'm magnetized to any and all chocolate goods. So I'll happily devour three hundred pieces of candy from that dish. But then I look at the trash, see all the wrappers, and realize what a horrendous fat fuck I am. I don't want anyone else to know this. I don't even want to know it myself. I want to hide it from my eyes so I don't remind myself. Hence, I'll top those wrappers with papers and shit. COVERUP: COMPLETE.

There are any number of things that a man will bury in other garbage to prevent its discovery by others: wrappers, cans, porn, booger tissues (the real Jackson Pollock ones), nut rags (if you're too lazy to toss it in the toilet), embarrassing internet printouts, skidmarked boxers, fingernail trimmings, and God knows what else. You ever see those shots of paparazzi digging through the garbage of stars? That terrifies me. If anyone ever went through my garbage, they'd be horrified. There should be a fucking biohazard symbol on the lid.

Pete:

Whenever you're leaving the grocery store, pushing a cart full of newly purchased goodies, don't you just want to start fucking running and hop on the back of that cart like you were 8 years old again? Every time I walk out of the store I get the urge to ride the cart back to my car like a bastard.

Shit, I get the urge IN the store. And sometimes, I do it. The key, at my weight, is to make sure the cart has enough shit in it to counterbalance my considerable girth. So I load that fucker up with 2-liter seltzer bottles until I can finally hop on the bar and fucking cruise.

Best place to do this is the frozen food aisle. If you're familiar with grocery stores, you know that the produce section of any grocery store is always fucking anarchy. It's like being trapped in a riot. There are bodies everywhere, grabbing at things. Some people just sit there, staring at shit for minutes at a time without moving. Old ladies are struggling to tear the plastic bags off the rolls. I do everything in my power to get the fuck out of the produce section as soon as humanly possible.

Everyone else crowds the cereal aisle and dairy aisle, and I always hit the store when the guys are busy stocking the shelves, so there are fucking huge carts of shit blocking everything in all the aisles. Drives me insane. But the frozen food aisle is relatively deserted. And they're wide as shit. They make for a perfect drag strip. So I'll get up a head of steam and ride that cart for a solid half a second until some old hag turns the corner and sees me. Then I get off and try to act like nothing happened. Bitch.

Also, even though I try to weigh down the cart, I usually end up tipping the thing. That's always fun. WHOA SHITTTTTTTTTT!

Jeremy:

After killing a spider with the "crushing his guts through a rolled up kleenex" technique, I like to toss the fucker into the toilet and piss on his lifeless, 8-legged body while laughing maniacally. It's not for my enjoyment. It's a warning to any other spiders that may be watching from the crevices of my bathroom. Cross my path and I'll fucking kill you AND PISS ON YOUR CORPSE!!!!

I too take great pleasure in such mercenary bug killing activities. I like to gently wrap the bug in Kleenex while making sure the bug is still alive. BRING HIM TO ME ALIVE. And THEN I crush him with my hand. Immensely satisfying. You hear the crunch and everything. I AM THE ANGEL OF DEATH.

Pissing on a bug's corpse is the icing on the cake. You also get to push the wad of paper around with your stream, and that never ceases to excite me. Sometimes, once in a blue moon, I open up the toilet and there's a live bug sitting right on the surface of the water. Now, on the one hand, this terrifies me. I have recurring daymares that one day I will sit on a toilet and a giant spider/alligator/snake/cockroach will rise up out of the toilet hole and bite my asshole off. It scares me to death.

On the other hand, LIVE GUNFIRE. I piss on that live bug for all it's worth. The ultimate punishment for invading my private toilet space. It must be done.

Steve:

Yesterday, I was scratching the bottom of a hummus container. Much like I do with a fresh pint of ice cream, I stay to one side of the container as I progress through the contents. In my mind, keeping half the container untouched for the next person is just common courtesy. The missus thinks I am absolutely crazy and actually finds this more disgusting than me spreading countless microbes over the entirety of the remaining food. Thoughts?

I understand the idea of doing that, but I never do it. I spread my DNA all over that container. Seeing half of a hummus container literally untouched, like it's Harvey Dent, would drive me insane for reasons I don't yet understand. I think that's something you should feel compelled to do only if A) You have a roommate, B) You and the roommate both paid for the hummus or ice cream and therefore are entitled to half each, and C) Your roommate is kind of a cock.

There's one other problem with eating just half of one container of, say, ice cream. I am the sort of person who will, as I'm digging through the ice cream container, actively look for the highest concentration of cookie dough chunks/chocolate chips/swirly caramel shit. If I see a high concentration of dough in one area of the tub, I FUCKING DIG WITH ALL MY MIGHT. Let some other sucker have the chunk-free shit. So If I were to leave half the container just sitting there, I could be leaving huge deposits of chips for someone else to take. No. Fucking. Chance.

Steve (again):

Also, from this week's mailbag, I hear you are supposed to lie down if you're ever in a falling elevator. By dispersing the impact you are less likely to break your legs. Either Beakman or Bill Nye taught me that one.

That makes perfect sense. But what if the elevator is crowded? I would throw someone down and lay on top of them, especially a fat person. I'm that selfish. You only get one life, you know.

Josh:

When I was a kid, I used to get horrific sinus infections, the sort where my mom could tell I had one because of how much I smelled like death. One time, even after deploying the cluster bomb of antibiotics that my doctor hit me with (I didn't even have a regular GP as a kid, we just went straight to the ear-nose-throat specialist), he decided it was time to "irrigate my sinuses". This involved hammering a syringe into my face, sucking all the mucus out of it and then flushing it out with some kind of saline solution. I remember laying down and closing my eyes and then making the mistake of looking. Hilariously, he was using a tuning fork to hammer it in. I guess using his shoe would have been unprofessional. Anyway, it pretty much worked, but was all around horrifying. My mom was in the room watching the whole thing, which must have been disgusting, but it was handy since it allowed me to verify that the whole thing wasn't a horrible dream.

I can only imagine what they sucked out of you. I mean, some mornings I step into the shower, blow my nose for all its worth, and what comes out looks like something that a black widow shoots at its victims to paralyze them. It's horrifying stuff. So imagine having an infected sinus with all that buildup. Must have looked like a green baby.

Jordan Green:

Six months ago, in need of some aluminum foil and being the environmentally-conscious Oregonian I am, I went with the 100% Recycled kind in the earthy brown box. It's just foil, I thought, how bad could it be, right? Plus, I'm saving the earth!

NOT right. This aluminum foil is awful. It comes apart like wet toilet paper, and the cutting edge is just the cardboard container cut in a zigzag pattern. I only used it for simple jobs (like covering a bowl of spaghetti), and it made me angry EVERY TIME I SAW IT. Then, when I was finally rid of the damn thing, my wife bought a new box because she "thought I liked that brand."

But here's what really pisses me off: the brand name is "If You Care". My theory: If You Care is actually owned by Reynolds Wrap, and is intended to get customers so angry, they never ask for recycled aluminum foil again.

The name of it does sound contemptuous. "If you care so much about saving the fucking planet, you'll probably put up with this horrid foil." I fucking hate bad foil. It tears all over the fucking place. You need the industrial strength Reynolds Wrap. The shit that comes in a box that weighs nine pounds and looks like sheet metal when you pull it out. That is a glorious product. I could build a T-1000 cyborg out of that.

I bought cheap foil by accident once. The package said ULTRA, so I assumed that Ultra meant is was thicker and burlier and metallier. FUCKING METAL. But it was thin as shit and tore the instant I tried putting it over the lip of a plate. Ultra my ass.

SEC Gal:

What's the appropriate etiquette for using the lunchroom microwave? If the dish in the microwave ahead of you is finished, yet its owner is nowhere in sight, is it acceptable to take it out of the microwave and start heating your own food? My feeling is that, unless you're cooking a damn Thanksgiving turkey in there, food takes at most 5 minutes to warm up. So stick around and get your food out when the microwave beeps. I have just taken it out and left it on the counter as I heated mine up, but felt simultaneously justified and rude when its owner came to get it.

I'm the kind of person who will put shit in the microwave and then immediately leave the lunchroom once I've pushed the START button because I can't stand to sit there and wait. The time waiting for something in the microwave to cook feels like the most endless stretch of time ever. It's like the time between waiting for a video to buffer and it finally getting onto your screen. It just feels endless because you have nothing else to do except stand there and watch the fucker rotate. So I happily abandon it. That makes me vulnerable to someone coming and aborting the heating process in favor of their own dish. I think that's fair. If you can't bother to wait three minutes (and I can't), you lose dominion over the microwave and anyone can usurp your lunch with their own. That's fair, though most people let the other thing in there cook anyway. I wouldn't feel bad about taking it out early if I were you.

A couple other workplace microwave tidbits:

• I never gauge microwave cooking times accurately. Either I underestimate the time needed and the thing comes out just as fucking cold as it was before, or I've nuked it into oblivion and all the moisture has been eliminated from whatever is on my plate. It looks like astronaut food by the time I pull that shit out. Huge pores dot the sauce. The only time I score is when the microwave has specific item buttons you can push. POPCORN. BEVERAGE. Shit like that. Yet there's never a CHILI button. Oh, how I yearn for a CHILI button.

• Whenever I cook something in the microwave, it is cold again seven seconds later. Regardless of its initial heat. You could nuke something for an eternity but you better be ready to eat that shit when it comes out, because it will turn cold faster than a newlywed. You take a chicken out of a regular oven, it stays hot for a fucking hour. It bothers me.

• I am a terrible perpetrator of the "smelly lunch item in the microwave" crime, in which someone at your work heats up something exotic in the microwave, causing the odor of it to permanently linger in your workspace for the rest of the day. Curry is the single worst offender of these items, and I have smelled up more than on office reheating that shit. But it's GOOD! And it would go to waste if I didn't eat it at work! Is it my fault the people of India have crafted a cuisine that is both delicious and has an aroma that sticks to fucking walls?

If I had to choose between working next to the company shitter or the company microwave, I'd go with the shitter every time. At least the smell would be consistent.

SEC Gal (again):

Also, is it rude to look at your coworkers' Tupperware containers of leftovers and comment? My feeling is that they're clear, so you can easily see what's inside. Why not burst out with an inspirational, "That looks good," or "Everyone seems to be eating Chinese today." Yet I did this with a coworker the other day and she looked at me like I had poisoned her dog.

It's because lunch is intensely personal for many people at work. It's their oasis in the middle of the day. It's what they're thinking about while they're doing shit in the morning. So if you're like, "Hey, that smells good!", the other person takes that as I WANT TO FUCKING STEAL YOUR LUNCH AND RUIN YOUR FUCKING DAY.

Also, there may be deep shame in whatever it is someone is having for lunch. Maybe they went to PF Changs, tried to resist ordering the sesame chicken, then ordered that shit anyway. Now, they're eating the leftovers and still dealing with the lingering shame from feasting on fried chicken assholes. They may want to indulge in that as inconspicuously as possible, and then cover up the container with other garbage once it goes in the wastebasket. I'm not saying that's right. I'm just saying that working in an office turns people into self-conscious freaks who question your motives when admiring their food.

Donovan:

What are your thoughts on the best age to be? I am now 32, and I think it's the cat's ass. People finally take you seriously at work. You're young enough that your dick still works. You could theoretically land a 19-year-old college girl or a 38-year-old cougar. It's still possible to be in great shape (not me though, I'm hella fat.). It's a great time to be alive.

Yeah but I'm 33 and I have a wife and two kids. The problem with all ages is that nothing coincides. I'd like to have the wisdom of 33 but the sexual freedom of 22. But it doesn't work like that. At 22, you still lack the self-awareness to know you're a complete fucking ponce. And you're even more retarded in your teenage years.

Regardless, I'll take 24 or 25. You're a little bit smarter than 22, still free, and you've figured out enough of the dating scene to know what you're doing. Work still blows, but work always blows.

No wait, I'll take 20. Junior semester abroad. I would stay on junior semester abroad forever.

Scott:

Can we make some kind of fucking law preventing Girl Scout parents from bringing their kid's order forms into work? First off, you're obligated to buy at least one box. Then when she brings in that box of Thin Mints that you ordered to the office, you end up devouring the whole damn box in the span of an hour because you're bored and miserable at work. No way an office-ordered box of Girl Scout cookies has ever successfully made it home. Fucking Girl Scouts. Probably the sole reason New Year's resolution diets fail within 2 months.

There's also that one co-worker who will buy cookies and then leave them out for all to take, and that's even deadlier. Or worse, she'll buy the thin mints and then go the extra mile of sticking them in the freezer. DIABOLICAL. Holy fuck, frozen thin mints are good. I could eat 50 of those in seven seconds. In fact, let's go ahead now and rank Girl Scout cookies in order of deliciousness. I'll omit the Daisy Go Rounds (sounds like a sex act), Trefoils, Thanks-a-lots, Lemon Chalet Cremes, Lemonades, and Thank You Berry Much cookies, because I don't give shit about them. Let's go.

1. Tagalongs. I would strangle you with piano wire for a box of Tagalongs. Cookie and peanut butter center. Covered in chocolate. It's a fucking peanut butter Twix bar, for God's sake. It's not even a cookie. It's candy. It's insane.

2. Thin Mints. Especially if frozen.

3. Samoas. Caramel and coconut. Chocolate on the bottom. Again, diabolical. Naughtier than banging an actual Girl Scout.

4. Do-Si-Dos. The peanut butter sandwich cookies. They are good.

5. Dulce De Leche. I have not had these. They look fucking awesome.

I could eat nothing but the top 3 on that list for the rest of time and be quite pleased. Makes you wonder why the Boy Scouts don't do something similar. All they have to offer are the AV cards of young boys. Dude, my kid is selling Boy Scout jerky. YOU CANNOT RESIST.

HALFTIME!

Doug:

Did you ever make a horrible lube choice growing up? When I was in 5th grade, I used Pert shampoo. That's bad enough. It was even worse because I was too lazy to wipe my dick off when I was done. For the next two weeks I had to deal with a burning crusty dick. It looked like a retarded snake shedding it's skin.

It could be worse. When I was in high school our baseball team traveled across the country to play in a tournament in Florida. One of our pitchers was scratched because he jerked off with mineral ice the night before his start. He could hardly walk the next day.

Shampoo is a common lube mistake among junior masturbators. Baby oil is also difficult for a totally different reason. I remember I was at my grandma's house when I was 12 and there was a bottle of baby oil in the bathroom and I was like FUCKING JACKPOT. So I take off my pants and get to work, only I was a kid so I didn't know a little went a long way, so I just doused myself in that shit. Overuse of baby oil is a real problem because then there's NO friction, and you can't feel a thing. Then you try and wipe it off with toilet paper, only the toilet paper sticks to you and now you look like a fucking idiot. It just gets everywhere.

I swear I have watched sex scenes where they use baby oil and thought to myself, "God damn, that will take AGES to clean up." I'm barely a sexual being at all anymore.

Fantasy:

The guy that wrote in about the ear wax was not shitting you. Here are a couple pictures of the wax I was able to flush out of my ear (with objects for scale comparison). Amazing. And you do hear better after.

HOLY SHIT!

Frank:

Dude, you do NOT want to ever drink whiskey out of a bag. It's fucking disgusting. Observe: the Pocket Shot.

I have consumed this. Though I don't regret living to tell the tale, I cannot recommend it to anyone else. It tastes like cigarette ashes and horse semen. Fucking gross.

I had a lot of people write in about Pocket Shots this week. One reader even tried West Africa's version of the product, who he too did not recommend. When I was thinking of drinking hard liquor out of a bag to look gangsta, a little pissy Pocket Shot wasn't what I had in mind. I'm think a really big, economy size bag of toilet whiskey. Like, if you sitting on your stoop and drinking whiskey out of a bag the size of a bag of Ore-Ida fries. I would try that. Pocket Shots don't really count.

Brent:

What about the grocery store poop…for as long as I can remember I have always needed to take a shit when I go into a grocery store. I can take a shit at home, jump in the car, drive to the grocery store and have to shit again 10 minutes later. Weirdest thing ever.

It's even worse if you can't get home and you have to use the bathroom in the grocery store, which I have had to do. Not every grocery store will let you in the bathroom, but some will let you walk back into the bowels of the store, where they cut meat and stuff, to use the loo. And those bathrooms are never pleasant. You know damn well that some guy who just basted his hands in raw chicken juice for three hours came in and used that thing without washing his hands.

Also, using the bathroom in the grocery store means you have to abandon your cart. I always dislike abandoning my cart because I always picture someone happening upon it and crying out, "Milk? Eggs? Honey Nut Cheerios? WHY, THIS CART HAS EVERYTHING I NEED! I SHALL ABSCOND WITH IT AND ITS OWNER SHALL BE NONE THE WISER! TEE HEE HEE!" Then they make off with my groceries and I have to wade back into the hell of the produce aisle. It never happens. BUT WHAT IF IT DID?

I have similar visions when I put my groceries in the car and then walk the cart back to the store. I imagine someone happening upon the bags in my trunk and totally nicking them, usually because I'm too lazy to lock my car. I often avoid this anxiety by leaving my cart at the front of my parking space, which is a total dick move. But the parking lot to my grocery store has no cart stations in the middle of the parking lot, so I feel justified in committing this heinous act.

Jim:

When you're doing the paperwork after a good download, do you rush to get in the bowl another volley of toilet paper during the bonus flush? I do, and what bugs me is I know I'll still have to have a second full flush anyway. Depression era mentality knows no boundaries.

Yeah, but sometimes you throw that extra wad of paper down mid-flush, and it clears customs, and that is a fucking GREAT feeling. There's always that anxiety when you throw that extra wad in. Will it make it? Was that the poopy straw that shall break the camel's back? And then it makes it through, and it feels like you just smuggled a pound of heroin through Miami International Airport.

Matt:

In response to your post about having to take the dive in any game against a child, I have to say I refuse to abide. I'm 23 and was playing checkers with my 7-year-old niece this past summer when the opportunity for a QUADRUPLE-JUMP presented itself. Seeing that this NEVER happens, I took full advantage and jumped the shit out of those checkers, claiming victory for the good guys.

My niece was non-too happy and my sister declared me a jerk.

Is she right?

No. I think the way you avoid judgment there is by sharing, with your little 7-year-old, the rarity of the quadruple jump. So you say to the kid, "Oh my goodness! Look, junior! This is really cool. The board is set up so I can do a quadruple jump. Look at this. One jump. Two jumps. Three jumps. Four! Isn't that amazing? You set it up just so, so that this checker could jump four times. Isn't that cool? AND SO I JUST FUCKING RUINED YOU, YOU LITTLE SHIT." You see how much more mature that makes your victory? Use your success to teach your child, to make his asskicking more palatable. That way, your sister doesn't think you're a jerk. And you still get to savor the victory over the little fucker.

God Hates ASU:

Are you ever just sitting on the toilet, taking a massive dookie and all the while, having a text conversation with someone on your phone? I do this all the time and let me tell you, it is quite entertaining. But if I were to find out someone I was texting was taking a shit while talking to me, I would be kind of pissed. I'm not your god damn shit entertainment buddy. Thoughts?

I wouldn't have a problem with someone texting me while pooping. So they're pooping. Big deal. It's not like the messages I get have fecal residue on them. OR DO THEY?!

I work a lot from home these days, and not only will I text people from the can, I'll call. I've had entire phone conversations where I'm shitting or I'm pissing, and the thrill of it is that you never know if the person on the other end of the line will know what you're doing. Can they hear the stream hitting the water? Do they have the guts to confront me on the phone about it? I took a business call once and I went over to start pissing during the conversation, and I swear I heard the dude on the other end of the line hesitate the second the piss hit the bowl. So disrespectful. I can't get enough.

Sam:

I keep putting the loner sock into the laundry in the hopes it reappears with its mate. The one week that it works I am as happy as a fat chick at Baskin-Robbins.

It can happen, because those stray socks end up in sheets and sweaters and you just never know when they'll re-emerge. Sometimes, I throw the loner sock in the wash, and I get in return the loner sock, and then ANOTHER loner sock that doesn't match. It's quite bittersweet.

John:

Is it bad to watch Little People on TLC and think, "I could totally kick a midget's ass?"

No. Just once, I'd love to do that move where a midget charges at you, then I grab their forehead and they try swinging at me but their stubby little midget arms would be too short to reach my body. Then I'd sing, "HO HO HO GREEN GIANT!"

I've always wanted to have a death fight against someone who I know I could beat. You know those football teams who are like, "Bring us the toughest team! WE WANT TO BEAT THE BEST!" Not me. I want to beat the very worst. I want to just beat the fucking piss out of someone like Tila Tequila and not worry once about defeat. That would be a blast.

In fact, if someone came up to me and said, "Drew, I want you to fight a midget to the death. And, once you kill the midget, it springs back to life as if nothing happened," I would accept on the spot. What I'm saying is that I would like there to be a resurrectable midget I can kill multiple times over without any guilt. Is that weird? I don't care.

Peter:

I get restless and/or stiff sitting in my seat on an airplane and like to stand for a while. There is no place to stand other than next to the aft lavatories. So while you're standing there, people keep showing up, assuming you're in line for the bathroom, and waiting in said "line" themselves. (Lots of people are too dumb to observe and/or believe the "vacant" sign on the door and the fact that the light is not lit up.) You keep having to tell people "oh no, go ahead, the bathroom's open, I'm just standing here." Or worse (or better), the bathroom is occupied, and someone comes out and the person who's waiting next to you assumes you're about to go in and defers to you, and you have to explain either with words or actions that you're just standing there like a moron.

Sometimes I get sick of this and feel like a tool. But more often, I take silent pleasure in every one of these interactions. I make these fuckers wait, just to show them how stupid they are. I stand idly, staring out the little window in the emergency exit door or stretching my calves or doing some other thing that clearly conveys, "not waiting to piss." And when they inevitably fail to figure it out, I snap out of my feigned obliviousness: "Oh, I'm sorry, did you think ...? No please, go ahead." It pleases me that, while I could have let that poor slob relieve his urinary urge three seconds earlier, I didn't. I AM IN CONTROL HERE, PEOPLE.

Yeah, but that's a cock move. Think about if someone did that to you. You'd want to throttle them, and you'd be right to feel that way. I too like to stand up and walk in the cabin of an airplane, so as to relieve my back pain. And when I stand outside the bathroom, I like to pretend I'm the bouncer of the bathroom, and that I'm allowing people past an imaginary velvet rope so that they might use the facility. That way, I get both an ego boost AND I don't have to be quite so dickish. Pass on through, young squire! YOU ARE FIT TO USE MY ROYAL DUTCH AIR SHITROOM.

The bathroom a the back of most planes is located next to the galley, where the stewardesses fill the drink cart. Sometimes, I edge into the galley as I'm standing. Sometimes, you can chat up the flight attendants this way, and it totally makes you feel like you're in their secret club. Oh, the Denver Ramada is the fucking WORST! I agree!

Dennis:

Drew, the only thing worse than losing to a kid on purpose and trying to be like "oh, wow you're so good at tic-tac-toe, etc" is losing when you're trying not to. My 9-year-old son routinely kicks my ass at FIFA 2010 on his PlayStation. I TRY to win and he still beats me. And he's a shitty sport. He runs around, shakes his ass at me (which really pisses me off), and has to watch EVERY fucking replay. I wish I had a dollar for every time I've told him to hit his X button. The other day, after he beat me, I told him I wasn't going to play with him anymore because he was a poor sport. Now I've got a 9-year-old patronizing me when I play him. "Oh, good shot dad, you should have scored on that one." Fuck.

That's terrifying. That is my biggest fear about having a son. I have a son, but he's one, so he's not an actual boy yet. But that's gonna happen soon enough. I was a boy once, and I know for a fact: little boys are complete fucking assholes. So how do you even tolerate having an obnoxious little boy around while also knowing he's YOUR son? It's your fucking fault he's a dirty, lazy little bastard. What if he becomes like Cockeye Jones and jacks it 17 hours a day? What if he's ungrateful? What if he eats all the pepperoni in the fridge and doesn't warn you? Oh God, that just gnaws at my guts. I'm putting the one-year-old in military school right now. Preventive measures.

Dana:

Since I'm sure you don't frequent health food stores, I'll clue you in to a fabulous product called the Ear Candle.

It's a 1-inch cone of fabric and beeswax that you stick in your ear, light the top end on fire, lay down and enjoy. The heat from the flame warms up your earwax, and a vacuum is created to feed the flame, which pulls the warm earwax out of your dirty-ass ears. It feels so good it makes my nipples hard, so I'm sure you boys would find a way to jack it with a big ass flame coming out the side of your head... After you put the flame out, you can cut the bottom of the ear candle open to explore your loot of orange waxy goodness. Not only will you be a-fucking-mazed at the amount of wax that was hiding in there, you will be shocked at how well you can hear afterwards and how light your head feels. Fuck the gym, your big ass head could probably drop 4 lbs just from ear-candling... Enjoy!

Yeah, but it sounds dangerous. How long do you sit there with a goddamn fire blasting out of your ear? 10 minutes? I can't sit still for ten minutes. What if I have to go piss? Does that ruin the vacuum? There's a site that questions the use of these things:

A woman who experienced stuffiness in the nose and ear pains while scuba diving went to a local health-food store and was referred to a "qualified" candler. During the "treatment," she felt an intense burning in her ear. At the emergency room, attempts to remove wax that had dripped from the candle onto her eardrum failed. Surgery was required, and a hole in her eardrum was discovered, which presumably was caused by the procedure.

GAHHHHHH HOT CANDLEWAX ON YOUR EARDRUM. It's like the worst Madonna sex scene ever.

Willie:

Drew, Mastodon is coming to Baltimore. You going? April 20. Hitler's Birthday, Nazi Shark would like that.

You know what? FUCK IT. I'm going. DEADSPIN MASTODON PANTS PARTY ON 4.20 IN BALTIMORE. Ticketbastard link here.

Toker Ace:

I recently started working out again and wondered what the policy is on toking up beforehand.

I'd fall off the machine 50 times and wet myself.

Jim:

Maybe that shit with eating somebody else's fries works on your wife, but with buddies in the car, it'd be fucking war. For years I've been getting an extra medium fry as 'road fries'. Keeps the peace.

That's sound policy, my friend. I cannot dispute such methods. But why a medium? Why not go for the Godzilla size box?

My wife will insist on splitting fries at McDonald's to prevent overeating. I always regret agreeing to this. All I want to do is grab fries by the fistful and stuff them down my fucking throat. Not as easy to do with the dagger eyes on you.

Anonymous:

I used to work as a driver for a company that provided entertainment services, the kind that used to be able to advertise on Craigslist in the adult services section. We received a call about 4am on a weekday that someone had called and requested a date in Beverley Hills, I parked my car across the street and the lady strolls in, (Some inside information for you, not all these girls are full service or even some service. The girls are upfront about what they offer but hint at extras and expect to be paid upfront) The girl and I would communicate through text message and after about 15 minutes she texted me to come in. The usually means that something is wrong that the customer is not happy with the lack of services offered, but to my surprise there is Charlie Sheen, he got a cold beer for me and invites me to come in a relax a while and watch some TV, he asked if we knew of any other Premier Services in the area.

In my tenure as a driver I met many celebrates, and he was by far the nicest to me and the girls.

Yeah, but that's because he hadn't done a speedball and called Denise yet. After that, he becomes a fucking minotaur.

Anon:

Is it possible to watch Olympic figure skating without staring at the woman's crotch the entire time?

No. Because the outfits are designed so that the eye goes directly to them. You can't help it. Plus they're always spreading their legs and raising their legs and doing all kinds of things that showcase the biscuit. They practically lead with it.

Nick:

My god so temping. Definitely would have ended with hot coffee in my eyeballs if I tried it.

It IS tempting, isn't it? The gun is just SITTING there. Out. It's so big. It practically speaks to you. You have half a mind to grab it and turn into Ron Silver in "Blue Steel". Cops have to know this. They have to know everyone wants to grab that thing and just go hog wild. GUNS ARE AWESOME.

I'll tell you one thing I dislike about cops, even though they keep us safe and all that. They have that gun and that uniform they automatically bask in the authority those two things give them. But really, a cop is still just a guy. He isn't REALLY some super awesome strain of person. If you were in a bank with me and didn't have your uni and gun, you'd be just another prick. We'd totally be equals. YOU HEAR ME, PUERCO?!

Ryan:

The last time I leaned forward to rest my head on my arm against the wall at the urinal, I fell over and split my head open. While I was pledging my college fraternity in the Spring of 1998, I slept on someone's couch at the house after drinking a few sodas the night before. To "study" for a noon quiz, I woke up at 10AM abruptly rather than taking my usual 50-60 minutes - that was probably my biggest mistake. Leaning forward and resting my head on my arm against the wall and closing my eyes for a couple of seconds, I fell over and split my head open on the divider between the urinals and sinks. A couple of guys drove me to the hospital, where my BAC was 0.10 at about 10:30 in the morning and I received six staples in the head. Saying that my mother was not too happy about her 18-year-old son's choices that spring would have been an understatement.

Why'd they take your BAC? Fucking hospital sold you out.

See you Thursday, kids.

The Christian Bale of Accounting

Brett:

Not sure whether it works for you to post an audio clip, but this is a recording my girlfriend took of her boss yelling at her co-worker. It's so utterly over-the-top that everyone is initially skeptical of the authenticity, but I can say that I've met both the gentlemen in the clip and that this sort of tirade is a common occurrence. In a related story, my girlfriend is quitting very soon.

Here's the audio:

I'd quit too if my co-worker sounded like one of the Jerky Boys.

Does any administrative assistant job ever turn out well?

Anonymous:

It was 2000-something, my wife and I had just graduated, and the job market sucked. She finally took an administrative assistant position and immediately started coming home with stories about her boss.

The problem with writing about her boss is that there's too much material and I'm too personally involved. Here's a short list of some of her boss's more awful characteristics.

* She decorated her office with garish plastic fish, including some hanging like party decorations from the ceiling, but would occasionally force other people to remove personal items so that the office "looked professional."

* She shit in her office.

This woman went to Taco Bell, (hand to God) came back to her office, and shit her pants. Now shitting your pants does not make you special, especially if you've had Taco Bell after sneaking gin all morning. How you react to shitting your pants makes you special. She came out of her office and told my wife and her office mate, wailing that she hoped her shoes weren't ruined before wobbling off to clean herself up. My wife's office mate cleaned up the mess. As I implied, the boss liked to dump on my wife's office mate and, according to my wife, seemed to think that cleaning the boss's poopy chair was part of her job description. Her boss never even said "Thank you." She did continue to wear the shoes to work at least once a week.

My wife was fired after two glowing performance reviews, as a direct result of an argument over the placement of balloons. Most of the other peeps under the boss's direct authority quit within six months.

We eventually found out that the boss and her husband had been under investigation the entire time for a fraudulent mortgage refinancing scheme.

That boss' name? Lee Fucking Majors.

Dan:

We are at a pretty well-to-do house, trimming hedges and bushes that are 5-20 feet tall. Our boss (let's call him Dave) is up on a ladder trimming this fucking huge hedge with a 4 foot-reach gas powered trimmer. Upon reaching the limit of his reach, rather than climb down, move the ladder and climb back up like a normal fucking person, he decides to "hop" the ladder over. This may work well on a nice hard wood floor, but not so much outside on grass. He proceeds to immediately fall off the ladder, and the trimmer lands on him, severing all the tendons on the top of his hand.

"Why doesn't this score contain a spoiler alert?"

Randy:

I was new on the job, probably a month or so after being promoted from lead copy editor/page designer. The assistant managing editor had a reputation of riding people recently hired/promoted to management positions.

One day when the sports editor was off, I was called into the AME's office with some questions about the previous day's sports section. The biggest question of his was: "I don't understand the roundups."

I asked him what he didn't understand and he said he didn't understand how to read them. After about five seconds of thinking, "SAY WHAT????," I proceeded to explain that the scoreline gives the score of the game, followed by a paragraph or two about what happened in the game. That was followed by this question: "Why is the score at the beginning and not the end?"

This time it was a good 10-15 seconds before the shock wore off and I responded with something like, "The score is the most important thing. This is how every paper in America prints roundups. I'll get today's USA Today and show you." To which I was told, "I think we need to take a hard look at how we do our roundups." Yes, our assistant managing editor was confused by sports roundups. Is it any wonder newspapers are dying?

Target: Hidden scourge of the American worker

Ronald O.:

I had the unfortunate experience of working for five years at Target up until last week. I worked in the back, where we do a lot of heavy lifting and other typical warehouse work. Naturally, all of this physical labor leaves one feeling thirsty. I brought a bottle of water with me to drink during my shift last Wednesday, as I and everyone else did. Unbeknownst to me, management decided that having drinks in any part of the store would no longer be allowed as of that day. As the first person breaking the rule the store manager (a Colts fan, go figure) wanted to make an example out of me so I was fired on the spot. The official reason was "Gross insubordination." Now when I fill out a job application, my reason for leaving will be "I was fucking thirsty." Fuck you Target and fuck you store manager.

Your boss doesn't care about the Saints

AJ:

I live and work in New Orleans, and my boss didn't let us come in late today AND isn't letting us off for the Saints parade tomorrow.

Not an asshole boss, but I won't quibble with a good work story

Matt:

My first job, like many, was at a grocery store. After being there for a little over a year, I moved to the meat department in the back of the store, and boy, was I happy. No more carts and piss filled plastic grocery sack cleanup for me. My schedule worked out with school getting out around 3p, that I could make it to the store and start my shift at 4p. Well, after about 4:30p, nobody was there in the department, and my duties included cutting some of the leftover orders and sanitizing the room for the next day.

One day, while on break with a few other people, a guy that worked in the deli walked in to the breakroom, and asks the question "You think if I cut my finger off that I could get Workman's comp?". Nobody really liked this asshat, and asking 16 and 17 year olds or the stoner guys that still work night shifts at grocery stores in their mid-30s, of course we want gore, so we tell him yes. About 20 minutes later, the store manager comes back to the breakroom, and there are still a couple of us back there, and she asked "Did Joe come back here talking about cutting off his finger and Workman's comp?". Not thinking anything about it, we tell her yes.

She has the 2nd part of the story: This fucker cut his finger off in the ham slicer.

Not only did he hack off the top knuckle of his index finger (you know, cause he'd never need that again), but he did it in the meat department because the deli is out in the open. My boss looked at me, and without thinking more than a second told me that I needed to go clean the slicer and grab his mangled finger out, and get it quick so she could take it to the hospital. I walked back there and it looked like a homicide scene, and I didn't have any baggies to throw the digit in, so I packed it with a couple of those soak pads, and wrapped it in a 1lb hamburger tray with the wrapping machine.

I don't know if he got his finger back on (I didn't put it on ice), and I don't think he got his Worker's comp.

W:

One night out at the bar, I saw a decent girl from one of my classes and her hot friend with massive tits from out-of-town. Afterwards she invited myself and a few friends to her house. I had no delusions of hooking up with either girl, but had no clue I would have a great shot with both later that night. When we got to their house, they took out some stupid game like Apples to Apples or some shit like that. We tolerated the game because the girls were pretty damn hot. Since the game sucked, we all were mainly concentrated on drinking. Soon, all of my friends managed to drink themselves blotto and pass out, which provided me the chance to get my game on (not saying much since I look like young Kurt Rambis). I felt I had a good shot based on odds and the fact they seemed horny only.

I continued to play this stupid game with these dumb girls, and the topics got more "fresh" as time progressed. We talked a lot about sexual positions and sexual innuendo and lesbian sex and I liked where this conversation was going. I also found out they had a gay roommate named Freddie, but they said he wasn't home. This seemed trivial at the time.

The decent girl from class invited me up to her room, and I thought the Poon-Gods were smiling upon me. Unfortunately, she passed out 5 minutes into the makeout session. So I thought I would try to get a handparty with Hottie McMegatits downstairs. She smiled as I came down the stairs and told me to sit down beside her.

We got down to a little bit of business, kissing, dry humping, and grabbing some nice-sized boobie. I thought I would finally be able to write Penthouse about that fantasy I had always dreamed of, when she shrieked and ran upstairs. I turned around to see a man, with no pants or boxers, at full attention, cupping his balls with his hand. It was Freddie. We locked eyes for 30 seconds without words, until he went back downstairs. From downstairs, I heard "oh my gawd, Nicki's friend is such a fucking slut!" and another voice saying "oh geez, i know!", followed by a door slam.

My classmate and myself never spoke of this again. However, my friends still think I had a threeway with her and her friend.

You earned that lie, my friend. You earned it.

Mike:

It was my 22 birthday so my friends and I decided to celebrate. After downing several shots at our usual watering hole, we decided to check out a bar that had just opened on campus. As I walked into the bar, there stood this hot girl that I met on spring break a few weeks earlier, but didn't have the chance to hook up with because her fat friend was having an emotional breakdown at the time and she needed to comfort her or some bullshit. No fat friend in sight, I walked over and begin flirting with her. We talked for a while and she eventually offered to buy me a shot for my birthday. She ends up buying me a shot of 151. Not wanting to be a pussy in front of my lady friend, I take the shot and was able to keep everything down. Impressed by my drinking skills, I some how convince her to come back to my apartment.

We get back to my place and start making out in the living room. Eventually we move to my bedroom where one thing leads to another and next thing I know we're both naked in my bed. The girl goes down on me and starts giving me a blowjob. After a minute or two of enjoyment, things begin to change as the room starts to spin. Not wanting her to stop giving me head, I try hard to convince myself that I'm not going to puke. After a few minutes, she moves to assume the position on top and asks if I have a condom. At that point I realize that I'm about to puke all over this girl, so I quickly tell her that I have condoms in my bathroom as I head for the door.

Just as I make it to the bathroom, I start puking all over the place; the sink, floor, and eventually in and on the toilet. Knowing there is a hot naked girl laying in my bed, I try to clean up the mess. At some point during the cleanup I blackout and end passing out butt naked on the bathroom floor. The next thing I know (four hours later), I'm being kicked by my roommate who was trying to go pee but instead finds me naked on the bathroom floor. After I realize where I am and how I got there, I walk back into my room and to my surprise the girl was still in my bed. As I got back into bed, she woke up, so I acted like nothing had happened. Condom in hand, I tried to banging her again, but after four hours she wasn't in the mood. She got up, put her clothes on, and left. Needless to say, I never saw or heard from that girl again.

Amazing how the magic fades away once you've thrown up and passed out on the bathroom floor.

Anonymous:

In November of 2005 John had just started seeing a new girl, Kim, and they had been hooking up for about two weeks. In this time, John and Kim had both admitted that they had never had anal sex, and discussed that maybe one day they would try it for the first time together (presumably him giving it to her).

Not long after, John wanted to have a night out with the boys, and made plans with Kim to meet her late night. Out with his friends, John proceeds to get blacked out (he has a long history of being an idiot this way), and at about 1:30 he left the bar without anyone knowing.

Way too drunk and very horny, John goes home and tries to call Kim to meet up. As soon as someone answers he gets way too excited and lets out a diatribe of dirty talk including... "where are you, I want to fuck you in the ass. Get the fuck over here so I can fuck your ass." After about 45 seconds of dirty talk that would make Pat O'Brien cringe the phone goes silent and he hears- "John, what are you saying? Is something wrong with you? This is your Mother." To which John angrily replied, "Fuck you Bitch," and hung up the phone before passing out.

Morning time comes around, and John's roommate gets a call from his own mother (who is very good friends with John's mother) asking him what happened last night and telling him that John's mother was very distraught. After hearing the very ugly details from his mom, John's roommate went to wake him up- and John didn't remember a thing. Sure enough, after a close examination of John's cell phone, there was a call made at 2:10, not to 'Kim', but to 'Mom Cell.'

Needless to say, Thanksgiving dinner that year was a little more awkward than most.

"Pass the turkey, Mom. No, I don't want to fuck you in the ass."

Jim:

I was a sophomore in college and I lived in a 8 person suite with my wrestling teammates. My teammates were a bunch of degenerates who like to film just about all of their activities on a camcorder that one of them bought. Among the things that we have on tape: "borrowing" a campus golf cart and driving it down a busy city street until the cops showed up, somebody attempting to chug a 5 lb container of potato salad followed by a food fight, and a fire extinguisher standoff after a 3x3 foot panel was knocked out of my wall. We all knew that anything done in our suite was liable to be recorded.

On one weekend I was at our regular college pub a few blocks away fro campus. I was talking to a girl that I had met the week before and things were going well. She went to a school that was a 30 minute subway ride away. I knew if we were going to hookup that night, I would have to convince her to come back to my hellhole of a dorm. My teammates were all at the bar, so I thought that if I could get her back early, I wouldn't have to deal with my teammates interfering with my hookup. We left the bar early and got back before anybody wa home. I thought I was in the clear.

We're in my bed making out for a while, but nothing much was happening. This girl wasn't really doing much of anything except making out with me. During my makeout/blue ball session, my teammates came home and all went to a room on the other end of the suite. Unbeknownst to me, they sneaked out to the fire escape that was adjacent to my room with the camcorder and we're recording my hookup from there. This went on for like 15 minutes until the girl I was with caught a peek at them. She didn't say a word and she closed the blinds. I didn't know and I didn't find out until the next day.

My teammates weren't happy with that and they decided they would do something else. They went in the kitchen, grabbed a bag of flour and knocked on my door. They wouldn't stop, so I finally answered. As soon as I answered, I got antiqued hard. That shit got everywhere...all in my eyes, on my computer, my TV. Somehow, I remained calm and stopped myself from punching somebody in the face. I laughed it off and cleaned myself up. I got my teammates to go back to the other room and somehow talked the girl into staying in spite of the situation. I don't think she had much of a choice, because it was 4 in the morning and it would of taken forever to get home on the subway. I brushed most of the flour off of my bed (that shit took months to get rid of completely). Nothing much happened after that with the girl. That was the last time she came to my dorm.

What the hell kind of teammates are those? NEVER JOIN A WRESTLING TEAM. Wrestlers are fucking freaks. For real, I'd fucking murder those guys.

B:

At my birthday party at a friend's house this past summer (late June), both the girl I was casually starting to date (a smart, quirky, petite half asian girl, definitely a virgin) and a girl who I had hooked up with several times over the previous 3 months (a sex fiend) decided to attend.

The 2nd girl spent the next 2 hours feeding the small girl shots, and being overly friendly with her. Next thing I know I'm standing outside watching the two of them make out. The friend clearly had come to the conclusion, "If you can't beat 'em, join 'em".

I was taken aback to say the least, but didn't want to break the delicate threads that bind such an occurrence. Thankfully, and predictably, the fiend says the three of us should go back to her place. Obviously I am in agreement, and by some fabulous combination of new found hormones and Jack Daniels, the asian virgin is ready to go. We hop into the fiend's vehicle, her driving, me in the passenger seat, and the 3rd on my lap. All we have to do is travel 1 bloody mile and I am in threesome land.

Unfortunately we have to cross the interstate access road to get there; we had the green light, we are crossing through the southbound access lane, and WHAM! Some asshole runs his red light and nails the right front fender.

Somehow we are completely fine. Had he hit the door, myself and the virgin on my lap would've been hurt for sure, but being fortunate was far from my mind. I hopped out of the car and ran towards the other vehicle. "DO YOU REALIZE WHAT YOU HAVE DONE?????" is all I could think.

Long story short, cops show up, take the fiend to jail because she failed a sobriety test, her car was totaled, and in the hour we sat on the curb, whatever adventurous compounds that had been pumping through the virgin's blood had been washed out. We walked back to the party house, made some bagel bites, and fell asleep on the couch.

The following is a very loose account:

-The snow began here in DC on Friday afternoon, with TV and radio stations all across the mid-Atlantic warning everyone to stay inside and not try driving in the snow, because people in the mid-Atlantic can't drive for shit.

-I live in a house that is susceptible to the occasional power outage, which is fine. They usually don't last long. But I fucking dread blackouts with every fiber of my being. On Friday night, the snowfall totals made a blackout all but inevitable. During the course of the night, I kept waking up every two hours to check to see if my alarm clock was still glowing. At 1AM, it was still glowing. At 3AM, it was still glowing. At 5AM, it stopped glowing. Fuck.

-There is a certain mental protocol I go through with any blackout. Perhaps yours is different. But here is mine:

ONE MINUTE IN: Oh, fuck! Blackout! Maybe it's one of those quick ones where the power comes back on five seconds later.

FIVE SECONDS LATER: Shit.

FIVE MINUTES IN: Call the power company. The bitchwhore auto voice asks for my account number. "It's right on your monthly statement." WELL I DON'T KNOW WHERE THE FUCK THAT IS, LADY. OPERATOR OPERATOR OPERATOR. Did you people know we have no power? I may not be able to watch TV tonight, and that would be a fucking tragedy. I DEMAND YOU PRIORITIZE MY HOME OVER ALL HOSPITALS AND FIRE HOUSES.

TEN MINUTES IN: Call everyone else. Mom, do you have power? Yes? I fucking hate you. Jack, do you have power? No? Oh, thank God I'm not alone in my suffering. This sucks, am I right?

HALF HOUR IN: It's a law of blackouts that my phone will always be juuuust on the verge of running out of power at the precise moment the blackout hits. What will I do when there are no more illuminated screens to stare at anywhere in the house? HERE COMES THE DRINKING.

ONE HOUR IN: Okay, power won't be back for a while. Whatever. This'll be fun! We'll light candles and carry around flashlights! And drink wine! And eat fine cheeses! And we'll talk about the kind of things that college professors surely talk in their TV-free homes at night! It'll be romantic, just like Amish living!

TWO HOURS IN: This fucking blows.

THREE HOURS IN: Power flickers back on for exactly one second, then goes back out. Worst tease ever. I'd rather be punched mid-coitus.

FOUR HOURS IN: What kind of batteries does this flashlight take? D? Oh, Christ. D's. The freak batteries, occupants of the lower rung of battery hell, along with the goddamn 9-volt. There's nothing but AA's in this fucking house. I'll be damned if the remote runs out of juice.

FIVE HOURS IN: There's always that moment during a blackout where you're annoyed that the power hasn't come back, and then you feel like both an asshole and a pussy because you can't go five hours without power while some poor guy in Haiti is trapped underneath seven stories of rubble. They don't even have power in Rwanda, you know. I can suck it up. I really can.

SIX HOURS IN: NO I CAN'T! GAHHHHH!!! After a few hours of any blackout, I begin to have those daymares of the power NEVER coming back. This is it. Civilization has come to an end. The grids have failed, and we are all on our own now. It won't be long until we must begin foraging for ourselves out in the open, like wild beasts. Soon, we shall all join roving hordes, eating beans out of tin cans found in dumpsters, feasting upon other humans who cross our path and feel the sting of our blades. The time of man has begun its rapid decline. WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIE.

SEVEN HOURS IN: There comes a point in any blackout where you feel the same way you feel when you're at work late. If you're at work late enough, you eventually just accept your fate and stop giving a shit. You're not going to go out drinking. You're not going to be able to watch a movie. You're just trapped and fucked. This is about when I hit that wall.

EIGHT HOURS IN: I ask the Mrs. if she'd rather go without power for 24 hours or me for 24 hours. She says power. She is SO full of shit. Honey, I'd trade you for a working microwave in five seconds flat.

NINE HOURS IN: Better move everything in the fridge and freezer into the snow. If the ham goes bad, I'll never forgive myself.

TWELVE HOURS IN: Okay, let's do the whole romantic wine with candles thing while we eat cold soup out of can. This will be fun!

FOURTEEN HOURS IN: This is not fun. This house is getting really fucking cold. It's amazing how a normal, warm home can assume Baltimore crackhouse ambience within mere hours of losing power. WE ARE LIVING LIKE FUCKING VERMIN HERE.

POWER FINALLY BACK ON: Thank fucking CHRIST. Sometimes, the power will go back on during your little romantic candle thing, and you'll happily cast aside that bullshit to turn the TV back on. Regardless of when it goes back on, I'm always eternally grateful I have power to begin with, and then go back to taking it for granted five seconds later.

-So that's the mental protocol. Only our power never came back on last weekend. We spent Friday night sleeping in eight layers of clothing and wool hats. It made me feel like a hobo, in kind of a cool way. I totally wanted to start a fire on the floor of the bedroom.

This blackout me put my family and I in grave danger… of not being able to watch the Super Bowl. And that would be horrid. I was never going to let that happen. So I said to the Mrs., "We have to get out of here. FOR THE KID'S SAFETY." Or something made up like that. And so, on Sunday morning, we made the decision to make a break from the powerless house and try and get to my in-laws' home ten minutes away. They had power, and television, and hot food. All good things.

-After getting stuck on an unplowed road roughly 73 times on the way to the in-laws, we finally make it. Power. Warmth. Hot chocolate. FUCK AND YES.

-Mere hours after reaching our in-laws, both my wife and I come down with the single worst case of stomach flu I've ever had. In fact, a little research of the symptoms after the fact reveals the formal name of gastroenteritis, the same illness you get when you're stuck on a cruise ships with a bunch of filthy old people. You do not want gastroenteritis. Every trip to the bathroom presented me with the delightful choice of either pissing my insides out of my ass, or heaving until my throat was dangling out of my mouth. There's no real way you can win with that decision. Either way, it's going to be unpleasant. And it was! My wife, for her part, went to the bathroom, got sick, and fainted. I heaved and shat 900 times and began violently shaking. Usually, throwing up makes you feel better, as when you are shitfaced. You feel bad, throw up, and then PRESTO! You're a new man. You could still hook up tonight! Not so with this. More vomiting just induces more vomiting. My father-in-law, a very good man, walked by the bathroom and saw me, in my boxers, crumpled on the floor, shaking, the toilet rimmed with my filth.

HIM: You don't look good, Drew. Maybe you should go to the hospital.

ME: Super Buhhhhh. Super Buhhhhh…

-My father-in-law looks up home remedies to help cease vomiting, because I cannot stop and have not stopped for hours. He finds that hot water with a teaspoon of cinnamon is said to work. He gives it to me. It seems to work. Thirty seconds later, I throw it all back up. It gives my vomit a pleasant, coffee cakish scent. Nice change of pace.

-Due to the fact that I was shoveling snow most of Sunday morning, and vomiting most of Sunday afternoon, all of the muscles in my limbs cease working. Quite literally. I lack the power to stand. My hands and feet feel like they are vibrating, which is kind of cool. I cannot decide if I am freezing to death or burning to death. It seems to alternate.

-My daughter also begins throwing up. Sunday was her birthday. Happy Birthday, kid. I got you East African deathworm. There are three toilets in my in-laws home, and they are now all occupied with people puking and shitting their guts out. Now, imagine taking in house guests and seeing them immediately blast fluid out of every orifice of their bodies in your home. That would be unpleasant. And I vomit LOUD. Sounds like I'm going down a roller coaster. HUNHWAAAAAAAAA!!!!! OH GOD HERE COMES ANOTHER ONE HUNHWAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!

-There is a point in any stomach flu in which all you can think about is how fucking sick you are, and that just makes you even more sick. I started throwing up and then I just kept thinking about throwing up, then I thought about shit that would make me want to throw up, like artichoke dip, or aspic, or reading something on Bleacher Report. And thus the cycle continued. You need distractions. You need something to take your mind off of your own twisted insides. And, while I would prefer to never have stomach flu, it's a nice stroke of luck to contract it at the precise moment that the biggest sporting event of year - a broadcast in which even the advertisements, while overrated, make for compelling viewing - is taking place for the next four hours.

-I drag myself on my big fat belly down the stairs to the basement and put the game on. I should be having chili with this game. But that's likely a bad idea. I call Ufford on the phone and he says I sound like I just ran 200 yards. You would think, given my girth, this is how I usually sound when indulging in any physical movement. But this labored breathing is a bit more severe than my usual shit.

-The game begins and I can barely make out the teams. My father-in-law places a bucket near me on the couch. I don't remember much about the first half, except that the Go Daddy ad was a piece of shit, because it's always a piece of shit.

-I fall asleep during The Who. I am told this was not unusual among even the non-ill.

-The third quarter begins and I'm still feeling like driftwood when Nantz's voice cracks on the onside kick call, and my eyes blast open. At first, it seems like the Colts were going to recover. Then the Saints turn out to have the ball, and I do the most pathetic little fist pump ever seen. They score, and suddenly a game which started out 10-0 and appeared destined to end boringly and exactly as most everyone predicted, begins to kick ass.

-I started drinking water. Shitloads of it. Even if it came back up, I felt like I needed to do it, lest I pull a Korey Stringer. My body had nothing in it. I keep drinking. I stop puking. My rectum finally retreats back into my body. I'm feeling better just as the game is starting to get really good.

-By the time Tracy Porter picks off Manning and seals the game, I can finally jump to my feet and say HOLY FUCKING SHIT. The storm in my body has passed, and the Saints are about to become Super Bowl champs. Also, I can go the fuck to bed now.

At last I am fully recovered, my ass no longermaking like a fire hydrant. And so, as we bring this NFL season to close, you will find few folks out there more appreciative of the restorative effect the NFL has both on one's soul and one's digestive tract than I. I thought I was about to fucking die on Sunday. This is because I am a pussy. But, thanks to one kickass final football game of the year, I did NOT die. And I got to see Peyton Manning suck it. So thank you, NFL. Once again, your powers know no bounds. Thank you. A million times, thank you.

Now come back fucking soon, or I'll be really mad. With all that said, let's close down the Jamboroo.

The Games

None. Time to pack the throwgasms away. Oh, how I will miss you, dear throwgasms. There is only one real plus to the Super Bowl being over, and it is this: No more radio interviews with old assholes who won the Super Bowl for another 51 weeks. God, how I hate that. Every year, all these old pricks descend on radio row to try and claw back into the public consciousness. It's horrible. "Welcome to the program, JEFF BOSTIC! LET'S TALK WITH JEFF BOSTIC FOR AN HOUR! HOW ABOUT THAT SUPER BOWL YOU GUYS WON A ZILLION YEARS AGO, JEFF?" Guhhhhhh.

In fact, when I listen to sports talk radio, I never want to hear anyone interviewed. Ever. Not players. Not coaches. Certainly not old and crippled players I no longer care about. Interviews are a waste of fucking time. If you're a sports talk radio station, please stop interviewing people and go back to your regular schedule of arguing about sports movies, ranking quarterbacks, and doing all the pointless shit you usually do. That's all I ever want out of a sports talk radio station.

Last Week: 1-0 (1-0 vs. spread)
Postseason: 6-5 (5-6 vs. spread)

Song To Get You Through The Offseason

"California," by Low. No more running through brick walls for a while. One day, when I have a billion dollars and the Jamboroo rights have been licensed in Borneo and 57 other countries, I will spend the entire NFL offseason somewhere warm and pleasant all year round. There, I will drink, eat grilled meats, and smoke pot until my butler tells me it's time to start watching football again.

Electric Boys Video Of The Week

"All Lips And Hips," by Electric Boys. Few bands can pull off using a sitar successfully. Electric Boys were not one of them. Anyone ever go to a place where there's a belly dancer and get pissed after five minutes that the belly dancer isn't a real stripper? I get like that.

Open Mailbag Tuesdays
If you want to get into the Deadspin Tuesday Mailbag, a couple pointers. One: Try not to bring up topics from the last mailbag. It's already been covered. Two: Keep it relatively concise, unless you're that dude who knew everything about toilet testing. Three: Keep emailing. Sometimes, shit doesn't make it in simply because I don't have time to get to it. That may seem hard to believe given that my entire life consists of wasting both my time and yours, but it's the truth. Four: Using proper spelling and grammar as best you can. I'm too lazy to capitalize "I" for you. And thank you to all the emailers who have pitched in to that column. It's been a blast, and it'll be here all year round.

Player That Deserves To Die A Slow, Painful Death
Pierre Garcon. Nice drop, fucko. And could you maybe try using a condom next time? Paul Shirley doesn't want his tax money paying for your filthy, ball-dropping offspring.

Nazi Shark's Vegas Futures Lock Of The Week
Lots of sports sites, to demonstrate the arbitrary nature of gambling, like to have animals like monkeys pick games to see if they can outwit their human counterparts. There's no reason we at Deadspin can't also get in on the fun. So we've asked National Socialist German Workers' Party member Rolf, who also happens to be a shark, to pick one game a week. Take it away, Nazi shark.

"Next year, I like the Dolphins at 40-1 to win Super Bowl 45. There is a new biography of Eva Braun coming out, and I think you will find it illuminating. Did you know both Eva and the Fuhrer loved architecture? It's true! So the next time you go on and on about how badddd Dachau was, maybe you should take a look at the flying buttresses and rethink your opinion."

2009 Nazi Shark Record: 9-11 (1-3 playoffs). 9-11? EERIE.

Great Moments In Poop History
Fear not. Great Moments in Poop isn't going away. It'll be back next week in the Jamboroo's replacement column.

From reader Sam comes a story I call THREE O'CLOCK POOP:

In 8th grade typing/computer class, all of the computers were situated at the perimeter of the room, which is where we spent most of every class; though usually the first and last 5 minutes or so of each class we'd sit at our desks in middle of the room, like any other normal class.

We'd just got back to our seats in the middle of the room with a few minutes left in class. Everyone's talking, waiting for the bell to ring, when the kid right next to me let out a really loud fart, which a lot of us sitting around him heard, and laughed about. I remember the kid sitting right in front of the farter turning around and exclaiming how utterly nasty the smell was, and said something like, "you better check your pants". A few of us around him then smelled it and it was truly godawful and we let him know about it. Farter then joked, seemingly at least, about how maybe he should check his pants. We thought he was kidding.

Farter then walked up to the teacher's desk at the front of the room and I heard him mutter something to our female teacher about going to the bathroom, and I remember the teacher shaking her head and sternly saying, "please take your seat, the bell is going to ring in a minute". Farter then must have quickly whispered something or made some gesture to her, because he quickly left the room with her permission. Moments after he left, the kid next to me yelled, "OH MY GOD, HE SHIT ON THE FLOOR", while pointing to a huge pile of diarrhea sitting right in front of the teacher's desk where Farter had just been standing. Making matters worse, there were 2 other smaller, but substantial, piles of diarrhea in the aisle between the desks, one of which was a mere few feet from me. Our teacher was at a loss for words, her face beet red, as she tried to calm the students, but to no avail. Bell or not, we all bolted for the door, screaming our heads off. As all the other classes soon emptied out into the hallway, I recall most of us running around to the nonwitnesses, exclaiming how our classmate had just shit his pants/the floor.

8th grade has to be the worst grade ever to do something like that. Kindergarten? No big deal, it happens. 4th grade? Kids would've forgot, forgiven, moved away, etc. Senior year in high school? Classmates would've probably handled it more maturely, and graduation would've been around the corner. But the end of 8th grade? A mere few months before high school begins? When the girls are all starting to put out? When everyone, me included, couldn't be any more immature? Bad timing to shit yourself for sure, as the poor kid was never able to let this down throughout the next 4+ years.

I suppose had he been wearing tighty whities and/or long pants, he would've been able to keep this accident "in house", so i guess the moral of the story is that if you're going to shit yourself in class, don't wear boxers and shorts.

A sage bit of wisdom from Sam. All you eighth graders out there best heed his words, lest you dribble a trail of poop out of class like some kind of poopy Hansel and Gretl.

Offseason Warming Soup Of The Week

Chicken soup. Warm. Inoffensive. Saved my ass this week. My actual ass.

During my bout with stomach flu, my mother-in-law baked a birthday cake for my kid, and the smell of it wafted through the house, making me feel even sicker. Such a cruel world when even the smell of golden, delicious cake is enough to turn your stomach.

Offseason Cheap Beer Of The Week

Blue Diamond! Described on its website as "Above average". Well, with that kind of endorsement, who are you to resist? From reader DZ:

Your toothpicks story reminds me of a game I used to play in college involving beer and potentiality for major injury/death. We called the game Blue Diamond after the beer we drank. Essentially there was a liquor store in St. Paul on Marshall Ave., the only place in the city you could get the beer. We lived across the street, so copious amounts of Blue Diamond were drunk during our college days.

Anyways our friends rented a house and in their backyard they had a trampoline. The backyard was tiny and basically consisted of this gigantic trampoline and about 10 yards by 4 yards for chairs, grills, hanging out.

One day we invented a game where about 5 of us were jumping on the trampoline some one would shake up a can of Blue Diamond, toss it into the middle of the trampoline and then 5 drunk and high college kids would jump around trying to avoid getting hit by the can. If you got hit you had to immediately roll off the trampoline grab the beer and slam it. Lots of strategery and lots of hilarity.

Also this trampoline was conveniently located next to a very old rusty fence which probably gave us several staph infections.

I would play that game. Look at that beer. Man, that looks like shit. I MUST HAVE IT. Bonus: Blue Diamond is also the name of the folks who make those delightful smokehouse almonds. I could eat a barrel of those.

Robert Evans' MVP Watch!
Time to start thinking about who the leaders are for the NFL's MVP award in 2010. Legendary Hollywood producer Robert Evans joins us to give us his assessment. Take it away, Mr. Evans.

"Baby, my favorite for the NFL's MVP next year is… Tony Romo of the Dallas Cowboys! Feisty? You bet! A taste for blondes? Only to match ol' Evans here!

"Well, the season is over. Time for me to retire to my vacation abode on the exotic island of Mallorca! There, my good friend Jon Voight and I will take in the fresh air, have a game of tennis, enjoy fresh manchego cheese with quince paste, and make love to some of Spain's finest young offerings! Oh, you should see Voight around a young Spanish woman. LIKE AN OWL! Focused? You bet! Vigilant? Always!

"Sometimes, Voight will tell me about his relationship with his daughter, the superstar Angelina Jolie! They don't talk much. I think that hurts him deeply. You can see it in his eyes when he says her name. His whole face just appears to sag. It's like there's a piece of his life that he knows is missing, that he set out to sea long ago that he'll never retrieve. Such a sad thing. I'll never have the heart to tell her I shtupped her during the casting process for Sliver. She didn't make the cut. Not as much of a wildcat as you might think. GIVE ME JENNIFER TILLY ANY DAY!"

Sunday Afternoon Movie Of The Week For Everyone

The Year Of Living Dangerously. Linda Hunt plays a man in this movie. She even won an Oscar for it. I assumed, while watching the entire film, that there was going to be a scene where Hunt's character would be outed as a woman. Because it was a woman playing the character of a man. But no, she plays a little dude the whole way through. I am really, really glad that there was no such scene. "Linda Hunt nude" is about the only phrase that is NOT in my Google search history.

Gratuitous Simpsons Quote
"Oh, Smithers, let's not be so cold. His spirit is my collateral."

Halftime Masturbation Kit
-For the guys: Reader bearfan24 wanted to send in the thong shot of Lisa Loeb available online. Hard to complain.
-For the gals: This guy. He's shirtless. Do with it what you will.

Enjoy the offseason, everyone. And a very, very warm congrats to the Saints and their fans. It's easy to be Mr. Cynic and say anyone who believes a football team can give needed hope to an area devastated by a natrural disaster is a fucking idiot. But a lot of people down there believe exactly that, and who am I to argue? They're the ones who have lost so much. They're the ones who believe the Saints have helped save them. Works for me. See you at the draft Jamboroo in April.

Danger Guerrero:

We've covered the school shooting, home intruder, and convenience store hero fantasies, but how about the elevator one? Whenever I'm in an elevator that makes a funny noise, I always imagine a set of circumstances requiring me to crawl out the top of the elevator into the elevator shaft to help others to safety. Once I'm out, I reach a single arm back down into the elevator to pull the others up (an act that would surely dislocate my shoulder violently in real life) and shout, "COME WITH ME IF YOU WANT TO LIVE!!". Once they're safe, I make my one-man assault against the squadron of mercenaries who have taken over whatever building I'm in.

I wouldn't even make it out of the top of the elevator in real life. You have to be able to do a pull up to be able to pull yourself up out of an elevator, and I lack that ability. But yes, whenever an elevator makes a funny noise or stops, I quickly imagine having to escape through the top, only to watch the elevator begin working again when I'm on top of the car. Thus, I must daringly jump from the top of a rising elevator car onto the top of a descending one. If I tried this in real life, both my ankles would shatter and I would get cable burn in 98 places on my body. Regardless, I handle this stunt flawlessly in the daydream.

Another rule of stopped elevators. If you're stuck in a stopped elevator with a woman or more than one, you immediately picture having sex with them. What if the elevator NEVER turns back on? Will you have to forsake your own family and make a new one with the hussy standing over in the corner? Will it come to that? When will your societal niceties break down and force you to make savage love to anyone else stuck in the car just to survive? YOU NEVER KNOW, DO YOU?! Hell, the elevator doesn't even have to be stopped. Porn training conditions you to picture elevator sex with virtually anyone swho steps on with you. Stupid Aerosmith video.

Also, if an elevator makes a weird noise, I always imagine it disconnecting from its cable and plummeting down to the ground. In that event, I always imagine timing a jump as the car hits the bottom of the shaft, avoiding the impact of the fall. Of course, this would do nothing in real life. My 3mm vertical would take care of that. Still, I would try and time my jump anyway if that happened. I really would. May as well.

Josh:

Is there anything more terrifying than when you blow your nose at work (or anywhere that personal appearance matters), you feel something exit your nose but then when you check the kleenex to assess the damage, it's pristine white and looks unused?

No, because you knew damn well that something came out. You could feel it exiting. Sometimes, before I blow my nose, I do a little pre-pick to assess just what kind of booger it is I'm dealing with. Then, after blowing my nose, I do a reconnaissance check of the nasal chamber to make sure the booger was evacuated. And if it's clear that it was, but that tissue is blank white, that is horrifying. WHERE'S THE BOOGER? IT COULD BE ANYWHERE! Good God, what if it's the size of a quarter? Is it on my keyboard? GAH!

CPH2133:

A female friend of mine was the middle of 6 girls in her family, all fairly close in age. Her dad installed a timer on the shower that would automatically shut off the water after 3 minutes of it being turned on. No time for the water to warm up, 3 minutes from the first to last drop. Have shampoo in your hair still? Tough shit, go use the sink.

As a result still to this day she takes the quickest showers ever, and thinks I am the crazy one for taking 10 minute showers. What is the acceptable length of shower? I'll stay in the shower for 20+ minutes if I have nothing to do.

That Dad is a fucker, I tell you that. I say ten to twenty minutes is just fine for a shower. Sometimes, you linger in the shower for too long, and you can feel yourself sweating even as you're being rinsed off. That's an odd feeling.

Gary:

What are your plans for when the world is overrun by zombies? My plan is to barricade myself in a baseball or football stadium. Three reasons: A) They have gates and are already designed to keep people from sneaking in; B) I can use the field to plant crops and/or graze animals, and C) There is probably a shitload of booze there.

I once read "World War Z" and it freaked me out so much that I wanted 80% of all government resources to be allocated to zombie prevention and defense. Because really, right now, our zombie defenses are pathetic. Are there emergency shotguns and Kevlar suits ready in our schools? Do we have the Redeker Plan in place?

There's only one good place to hide yourself during a zombie attack: a rural Wal Mart. There are fuckloads of guns in those stores. I already know I'd die in a Zombie War. I'd just want to shoot as many in the head as possible. Given my poor record in Lazer Tag, I would not rack up a very high body count.

Wes:

Why do all kids get sick in the middle of night? Why can't it be during the day when I am working and Mom is home with them?

I know! Little shits. "Lemme just wait until 3AM to start painting the crib with my insides."

Jack:

Have to disagree about the best movie to see in an all-black theater. In high school, I saw "Coach Carter" with my dad and brother (all big basketball fans) in an ABT. It felt like we were in the gym for each game scene. Yelling, cheering and whooping at every bucket, foul and steal. It was an awesome place to watch a movie. When Sam Jackson's team loses as the end, it was like everybody in the theater were students at the school. The disappointment was palpable. If you only saw the patrons walking out of the theater you would've thought it was a bunch of Knights of Columbus who just saw The Passion of the Christ.

That's the exact same reaction you got in any black theater where "Hoosiers" was played. Imagine if Coach Carter's team had won. I bet "Gridiron Gang" was the fucking tits in a Magic Johnson movie house.

Daniil:

I live in Queens and have countless "black movie theater" stories. I am Ukrainian myself, if that's relevant to the story.

My most memorable one is watching Return of the King. There is a scene where Gandalf (Ian McKellen) smacks Denethor (John Noble) with his staff. At that point you heard a loud OOHHH from the audience, then a really big black guy at the front of the theater stood up and said very loudly "That nigga Gandalf is fuckin' gangsta. You seen the way he smacked that other nigga?" to which his friend replied "That nigga Gandalf straight gangsta my nigga." I found the whole exchange interesting especially considering the words Gandalf, gangsta, and nigga were all said in the same sentence.

Agreed. Especially considering that, by the third film, Galdalf had already died and become Gandalf The White. His transition to Gandalf The Nigga after that was very subtle.

Brian:

Is it common knowledge that all married guys with young kids stretch every "alone" activity out as long as possible in an effort to maximize time away from kids? I hope so because I do. I get home from work. I head to bedroom. I take ten minutes just to get out of my work clothes and into my shorts/t-shirt. Something that would take me about ten seconds to do if I were alone and wanted get the TV on quickly to watch a game. Then, I might even brush my teeth, for no reason other than to get another sixty seconds of free time before heading upstairs. Sometimes I'll sit in the driveway, parked, radio off, and grab another sixty seconds before I hit the garage door opener. I love my kids, I do, but am I a huge ass for doing this?

No, because women milk the clock too. My wife will take a solid nine hours in the morning to shower because she knows, once that shower is over, CHAOS. I don't blame her. I do the exact same thing.

Stretching out alone time is a hallowed tradition among parents. It's not that you don't love your kid. It's that they're fucking exhausting. So you need that extra time to gather your strength before you head into the storm and threaten to beat the shit out of them to stop doing something before you pussy out on following through with it.

This weekend presented me with a brilliant milk the clock activity, and that was snow shoveling. Holy shit, did I milk that shoveling for all it was worth. I must have waited five minutes between individual shovelfuls. And when I walked back in, I was all tired and clearly was in no shape to care for the children. I JUST SHOVELED THE DRIVEWAY. DON'T YOU SEE HOW TIRING THAT IS?

My wife would have nothing of this and immediately grabbed the shovel and headed out for her own time in the sweet, delightful snowage. One of my friends was nearly murdered by his wife this weekend when he stayed out shoveling too long. She knew exactly what he was doing. It's snowing another foot again tonight. Tomorrow, the Mrs. And I will fight to death over the right to dislocate seven vertebrae moving that shit.

Chris:

Every now and then I daydream about how awesome it would be to be Spider-Man. Super-strength, Spider-sense, virtually no commuting time. But there's one sticking point: sticking to surfaces. How does Spider-Man surf the Internet, much less when he needs to "make web fluid"? Can he tell his hands to stop sticking to junk, especially when said junk is his junk? This is a serious drawback, and is getting in the way of my web-slinging through the air with the Black Cat fantasies.

Well, clearly he can, only nothing in the mythology delineates just how he goes about this. He must have some sort of mental off switch. This is much more prominent of a storyline with The Thing. Because The Thing is always this giant fucker made of rock, so he can't go out on dates and shit, because he's made of rock and very scary. Sometimes, it's only good to have a superpower if it operates AT YOUR CONVENIENCE ONLY. Like, imagine being the Human Torch all day long. That would be fucking terrible. I'd never want to be The Thing, or an all-day Human Torch. Or the Silver Surfer. He can never stop being silver. The whole surfing-for-poon angle is ruined by that.

Andy:

A brief word on old-school "pillows" of shredded wheat. While fundamentally insufferable on their own, they are instantaneously transformed into the greatest breakfast treat ever with the liberal drizzle of a UK import called "Lyle's Golden Syrup". In short, it is what I imagine God's ejaculate to be like, only thicker and sweeter.

Yeah, but who's this Lyle fellow? Is he Lyle: the Effeminate Heterosexual? And why is the syrup golden? There are too many unresolved questions about this syrup to trust it entirely.

Kevin D:

Am I the only douche canoe that uses the kiddy urinal because it's strangely empowering? I feel like Lord Thunderstream when I flop my bits and pieces out and tower over kiddy urinals.

Oh, it totally makes you feel like a giant. You feel like you're a thousand feet tall. LOOK OUT, LITTLE MAN URINAL. PAUL BUNYAN HAS COME TO DESTROY YOU.

Ward:

With Valentine's Day coming up I thought I'd ask you the proper protocol for dudes. No need to spend some serious cash for this "holiday" right? My college roommate bought his gf an expensive necklace once. Way too expensive. My woman is fine with a decent dinner out and a movie with no blood in it. Should it be anything more than that?

Fuck and no. I barely even know what day Valentine's Day falls on anymore. V-Day is strictly a boyfriend/girlfriend racket. Most married couples barely even bother. "Hey, we should have sex or something." That about covers it. Mrs. Drew would go batshit if I bought her a pricey Valentine's Day gift. "FOOL! WE COULD USE THAT MONEY FOR NEW WINDOWS!"

Nick:

There's a guy at my office who, at the urinal, always leans forward resting his forehead on his arm against the wall, like a drunk hobo pissing in an alley. This makes me feel uncomfortable/embarassed on his behalf. It's worse because he's sort of fat and shambling and I feel like he might actually fall over if he didn't steady himself while pissing.

Yeah, but pulling that move while you're extremely drunk is something I quite enjoy. You amble into the bathroom, and you've had roughly 18 shots too many, and you rest your head there thinking to yourself OH DEAR LORD WHAT HAVE I FUCKING DONE? It's a real treat.

Keep in mind, also, that your co-worker is pulling this move at work. So there's a very good chance he's using that move for the sake of catharsis. That's a real, "Please God, give me the strength to not buy a gun and shoot everyone in this fucking building" move. Or he's drunk

Steve:

I don't know what to do. I am sitting in my chair at work and I have terrible stomach cramps and have been ripping ass into my chair cushion for over an hour straight. I work in an open area with 4 desk mates who are inevitably going to smell the rancidness of my body. What am I supposed to do? As soon as I stand up, I know this wave of stench will poor out of my ass and chair. Need help...

This is why bullpens are fucking stupid. I hate these commie office spaces that are like, "Look how open we are! Everyone is equal in our company!" Bullshit. Now everyone has to smell each other's farts and listen in as Sue from Accounting tells her Verizon rep how angry she is that she's been on hold for an hour and can't get anyone to help her.

I say you stand up and wave that gas all around the bullpen. Get your arms down and give that gas a nice lift in the air. Let your superiors know how fucking bullshit it is that you have no private space at work to call your own.

I heard about an agency once that had a "virtual office". Everyone had a locker and a cell phone at that was it. You had no desk. The whole office was just free conference room space. Mutiny occurred within a month.

Otto Man:

A friend of mine had to take an epic shit during a swank meal in the Hays-Adams hotel in D.C. They only had a little one-seater bathroom, and he went in an absolutely stunk up the place. (Trust me, this was bad. He's a guy who once offended a homeless man with his farts.) After he double flushes, he has to get out of there before the HAZMAT team shows up. And who's waiting outside, next in line and about to get hit in the face with a stench worse than death? Wolf Blitzer. Welcome to the Shituation Room, Wolf.

There is nothing quite like a really nice hotel bathroom. I love going to weddings and shit like that for precisely this reason. Ever go to a hotel or a house and encounter a really nice bathroom, and milk it for all it's worth? I hadn't PLANNED on shitting here. I was just gonna piss. But God DAMN, not shitting in here would be a waste of precious opportunity. Sometimes, I'll hit a nice hotel bathroom and think to myself, "Oh, I'm coming back here." And I'll make a point of hitting it again an hour or so later. I try and get EVERYTHING out of a nice bathroom.

Same thing if I check into a hotel room, and the bathroom is all spacious and marbley. First thing I'll do is take a shit in that bathroom, and then just linger there. I could stay in a fancy bathroom for fucking ages.

Gabe:

Does your wife ever leave the shower curtain closed, and then when you go to shower you have to tear it open extremely quickly for fear of finding a dead body? Shower mold be damned, when I get to the bathroom and I can't see into the shower in my mind there has to be some thing murdered in there. Always, always scary.

I have the inverse nightmare, which is the Psycho scenario, where I'm in the shower and a stranger runs in to stab the shit out of me. I'm always on guard in the shower, because you never know if that'll happen. What will you do in the event of a shower knife attack? I'd use the shampoo bottle. It's heavy.

Runelvs:

Did you ever live or hang out in a walkup apartment during your time in NYC? I just moved from a 5-floor walkup into a 3-floor walkup, and without those last two floors it sucks 90% less. Also, my 5-floor walkup had the most horrifically tiny bathroom sink in the history of the world. I had to move the shower mat over to the sink (about 4 inches) every time I shaved, because enough water to halve Haiti's problems was about to hit the floor, and there was nothing I could do about it. Except shave in the shower, which is almost as ridiculous as standing and wiping.

I loved living in New York, but it's amazing the shit you'll put up with to live there. "Oh, this apartment is on the fifth floor of a five-story walkup. It has no closets, no windows, a gas stove that can only be lit with a match, and serves as a storage area for the rest of the building. I'LL TAKE IT!"

Those walkups are fucking brutal. Ever move someone in or out of a walkup? It's agony. If someone living in a walkup asks you to help them move, demand $1,000 up front.

Mack:

The chick in the Scorpions' "Rhythm of Love" video is Joan Severance. She was nails throughout the late 80's and 90's. She starred in a skin flick called "Lake Consequence" with that fuck Billy Zane. To round out her acting career, she starred with Hulk Hogan in "No Holds Barred", which I will not hold against her in any way.

She was also on an episode of Red Shoe Diaries. GRRR!!!!!

Robert:

Is it ever appropriate to try and solicit prostitution for a friend without his knowledge? I have a good friend, who has been on a little cold streak with the ladies. He was the best man at my wedding, and I feel I owe it to him to try and help him get some ass here and there. Fast forward (or rewind) to this past Saturday, and obnoxiously hammered me offered to pay a woman at the bar $100 to take him home and give him a blow job. Now, I don't remember any of this, as I was completely wasted. My buddy told me about it the next day. I think I'm a good friend for attempting to do this, he thinks I'm an asshole for even offering. Would you mind settling this for us?

Well, was the woman you asked to do this an actual hooker? Because you should probably make sure she's a hooker before you ask her to perform hooker-related duties.

Now, turning down a paid-for blowjob sounds dopey. Your friend, in theory, should be grateful for this. That could be Alabama Worley you sent in. But consider it from his point of view. His luck with women has been so shitty of late that his own friend took enough pity on him to dole out a hundred bucks just so he could get a blowjob. That's a huge blow to the friend's self esteem. So he has a right to take some issue with it. He should take the blowjob, AND be mad at you. That's okay.

Greg:

Not sure if you've covered this yet, but seemingly every time I'm on the treadmill at the gym I am overcome with the need to take a shit.

That's the worst, the mid-workout urge. Because then you have to pause the workout, run down to the john, take the shit while sitting with your thighs all moist on the seat, wipe your sweaty ass, and then go right back to working out, while you know damn well there are all kinds of assy horrors going on in your shorts. It's a terrible feeling, which is why I make it a point to hit the pooper before any extended workout. Even if you know there's nothing in there. Better safe than sorry.

Sometimes, you have that urge to piss at the gym too, and you go to take a piss, then you run back, and now all the machines are occupied. I wanna punch myself in the dick when that happens.

Alex:

Do you know why office and public restrooms always have toilet seats that are horseshoe shaped?

For good luck. And so your dick touches the ice cold front of the rim and fuses to it.

Mike:

My girlfriend will ask me to make her cereal - so I pour the cereal and milk, then stand over the bowl and scarf down half the bowl like I'm in a pie eating contest. Then I fill it up back up to the optimum new bowl-level and bring it to her as if nothing ever happened.

Referee Mills Lane says he will allow it. I do that with any food I serve to my wife or kids. I make Kraft Mac for the kids, half the box is eaten before their plate touches the fucking table.

On the flipside, I will get enraged whenever my wife surprises me by taking a generous portion of food from my plate. Like, the other day, I made bacon. Two strips. I put it on my plate, get ready to enjoy it, and the wife come by and is like OOOOH BACON! So she takes a strip. And I stare at her like she just murdered our kids in front of me. I am a hypocrite. Lady, that was 50% of my bacon. That's more than a bite. YOU ARE OUT OF ORDER.

My dad is even worse because he'll ask for a bite of your food, and then take the biggest fucking bite you have ever seen. The man could eat half a bagel in one mouthful. It's terrifying.

Lebowski:

I am a first time father and my son is 11 months old. His favorite show is Jacks Big Music show on Nick Jr. It is fucking brutal. God I hate children's television. Anyways, on one particular episode Lisa Loeb does a little music video. I found myself thinking that she looked pretty damned cute. I think it's something about the glasses. Am I a horrible person for wanting to fire off some knuckle children to a children's show? Will I now be on some sort of government list for even asking the question?

No, it's okay. You are an adult, and that means you are allowed to enjoy children's shows on an adult level, even if that includes picturing Lisa Loeb as a very sexy librarian who is about to throw back her hair and ride you like a carousel. YOU SAY…

Pedro CC:

So I was just on the stall and leaned forward for whatever reason and realized that I could, thanks to the angle of the light, actually see my poop descending in the reflection in the water. I thought this would be fun. It wasn't. Fun to do, fun to think about, fun to argue about, fun to read about, NOT fun to watch, even if it's your own.

I can only imagine. I have not had the privilege. But I have seen other animals poop, like horses. When a horse poops, you actually see their asshole "blossom," expanding and then opening to let the poop out. Looks like a piece of rotten cauliflower. It's terrifying, and seeing the same action coming from a human body would change me forevermore.

Reggie:

Showering while high is great. Brushing your teeth on acid is fucking transcendental.

But what if the toothbrush grows teeth and begins brushing ITSELF? Scary.

InSinSeer:

Peeing through the fly…balls in or out of underwear?

I got this question a lot this week, because that's the kind of question we get here at the Deadspin mailbag. I go through the boxer hole, and the reason why is because, despite my fatness, I have NO ass. At all. Flat as a pancake. So if I unbuckled and flapped my bits out over the gate, my pants would fall down. They must stay buttoned. Plus, the pressure exerted by the boxer elastic on my taint sometimes serves to stanch flow. At least, that's my amateur medical opinion.

HOWEVER, if it's nighttime and I have only underwear on, I go over the gate. Go figure. I think having fabric completely surrounding your penis while you urinate feels like more of a wetness hazard. Like you're playing a game of "Operation."

FEAST:

In every other episode of Chopped, a contestant will nick a finger while trying to hastily break down a vegetable I've never heard of. They will ignore the cut/blood and continue cooking. The judges will collectively sigh and whisper quietly about the blood contaminating their food.

If these chefs are willing to serve food with BLOOD IN IT on NATIONAL TV, how many times has a chef nicked a finger at [your favorite restaurant] and served the food anyway?

Or worse. I mean, none of those chefs use gloves, and chefs are fucking repulsive human beings. I've worked for plenty of them. Ever seen under a chef's fingernails? It's terrifying. These guys are staying up until 3AM cooking and drinking and banging whatever stray pussy is around. Lord only knows what stray toxins they've leeched into your veal medallions. Particularly the Italians.

Will:

I'm at work and I was just eating a sausage and cheese biscuit from Dunkin Donuts while washing it down with an iced coffee (Cream and sugar added). Being slightly overweight, I somewhat try to watch what I eat. I was enjoying my biscuit when I started to feel full. There were about 2 bites left- remainder had the circumference of a 50 cent coin.

In an attempt to make myself feel better about my fast food purchase by saving a few calories, I decided that I didn't need those final bites. So I crumbled up the paper with the biscuit and threw it my half-full trash can next to my desk.

I immediately had remorse for this decision.

I knew it was sitting in the trash can wrapped in crumbled up paper - biscuit, cheese, and sausage mashed but still slightly warm. It was practically staring at me. My co-worker sits behind me so she has full view of my actions. I called her desk so she would focus on her phone. I hung up, she answers hello a few times. Diversion successful. I quickly slide my chair 2 feet to my trash can and scoop the crumbled paper of mashed glory. I finished it and I was pretty happy. Have you ever entered your trash can to finish food that you previously tossed away?

Yes. And I think we should all congratulate Will here for the successful diversion tactic he deployed to prevent any sort of Costanza éclair situation. This is the kind of shit you have to deal with when you're fat. Your urge to be responsible is ALWAYS trumped by your urge for more sausage.

I used to buy a bag of chips to keep at the office. I'd have a few, and then close the bag, as if to say, "The bag is now closed. No more eating from here today." That, of course, never deterred me, so I'd immediately open the bag up and eat more. Then, I would close the bag and place it FARTHER AWAY on my desk. Oh, I'll never touch it now. It's by the stapler! May as well be in Russia! I would go through this process a dozen times in the space of an hour before the bag was all gone. And then there is nothing but shame and anger, mostly because it feels like I just reenacted a "Cathy" strip.

HALFTIME!

Anon:

Have you ever had to poo while in the shower, didn't feel like getting out and going to the toilet, so you just let it go? Bombs away! Sure, it's disgusting to have to help it all make it down the drain, but it's liberating at the same time, no? Society won't impose it's rules on me!

I have NOT done this. And I'm pleased to know that my scatological proclivities do not represent the rock bottom of humanity.

Myotherrideisyourmom:

Were you aware that Canadians drink milk from a bag? We discussed this at length among the regular Deadspin readers here in the office and decided that this is quite disturbing.

Agreed. YOU WOULDN'T DRINK WINE OUT OF A BAG, WOULD YOU? You would? Yeah, I guess I would too. I'll drink wine and fruit punch out of a bag, but no milk. Milk is where I draw the line.

They should sell whiskey in bags. Sometimes, I like to drink the cheapest shit on Earth just to feel like a homeless person, and whiskey in a bag would really add to the effect. Tell me you wouldn't feel gangsta drinking bagged whiskey. You'd feel just like Gandalf.

Michael:

So recently, our building changed cleaning services, and rather than wait until after hours, the new cleaning crew inexplicably chooses just after lunch to clean the bathrooms. It's a female that cleans the bathrooms...she'll knock, and you then give the previously discussed awkward "someone's...i'm...hold on", and then this horrible woman will wait outside the door until you come out, each time grinning mischievously with that "my my, what were YOU doing in there for so long" grin. At least two or three days a week, I'll sit down, make it halfway through the first article or game, and then hear the dreaded ding of the elevator followed by the rolling wheels of her cleaning cart...and then...the knock. Completely ruins my day, multiple times a week.

This is grounds for a formal complaint to building management, right?

Yes. She's way out of order giving you that look. Completely unprofessional. Our cleaning crew at the office used to always put the little yellow pylon outside the bathroom door, telling you couldn't go in to take a shit because they were cleaning it. And they always, always did this right at the moment when you had to go to the bathroom. Sometimes, the woman was nice enough to step out and let you do your thing. But then you're on the clock and that kind of ruins it. Other times, we'd get hardliners who would not allow you in until they were finished. And that would send you scrambling to another floor, or to the other bathroom on the opposite side of the building, roughly 7,000 yards away.

One aside completely irrelevant to this: One of the great innovations of the past few years is the shitter light on airplanes that tell you, from your seat, if the bathrooms are occupied. Planes didn't always have these, so you'd have to take your chances and get up (sometimes doing a head count of the rest of the plane to determine if any has left their seats) and check to see if the shitters were occupied. And they always were. And then you had to wait there, like an asshole. The shitter light defines clutch.

Joe:

When I fold my laundry, I throw all my socks in one large drawer without sorting. I bet I have 200 individual pieces of sock. Then, from time to time, most often when I am actually looking for a matched pair, I will get matches for 2 or 3 pairs to, kindof, build up the inventory.

The game, of course, is finding the matches. Sometimes, I can get on a real roll, and find matches for 5 or 6 pairs in a row.

As you say, it's the small victories that add up.

Yeah, but you must be single, because no woman would allow you to have a drawer filled with individual socks. I match all my socks and then leave the stray ones in my drawer in the hopes their true matches will one day resurface and they can live happily once again. I used to pair up mismatching socks anyway, because I didn't give a shit if my socks didn't match. But then those mismatched pairs were the first ones I grabbed out of the drawer because they were the last ones I folded and placed in the drawer. Annoying.

Matt:

The plural of dwarf was dwarfs until JRR Tolkien wrote Lord of the Rings and changed the plural to dwarves to match the plural of elf: elves.

Not that anyone gives a shit.

I do!

Tom:

Is there any warning sign more effective than the NO DIVING sign? That guy is so done his head is now flat on the top. When you see this you are not going to go head first into that pool.

CAUTION: DEER is also an effective one. When that sign pops up, I instantly become horrified that a deer will come charging out of the woods and ruin the shit out of my car. I look through the trees. I barely even watch the road at that point. Same with CAUTION: FALLING OBJECTS. What can you do? Stop? All you can do is sit there and envision a fucking "Sexy Beast" boulder coming down and flattening you to death.

Andy:

Is it possible to be good at pretending to lose to a child in something? Don't get me wrong, the kid buys it for sure, but I feel like I'm Freddie Prinze Jr. trying to play Daniel Planview when I fake incredulousness at losing a game of tic-tac-toe.

Well, they buy it when I pretend to lose, but inside I can't help but be annoyed. I never got to beat anyone at anything in my whole athletic career, and now comes some helpless little kid who I can fucking DESTROY at virtually everything, yet I cannot take advantage. I can even outrun these kids. I can't outrun anyone. But I can smoke these little fuckers. Stupid nice daddying.

LJ:

I didn't want to out my sisters-in-arms (who, no doubt, deny having them so that their friends/coworkers/whoever-you-are will, they hope, stop picturing them masturbating) but OF COURSE we have spank banks. I don't watch porn, but I've been blessed with countless great orgasms in my life, and they're exhaustingly cataloged for access during Me Time. Anything is fair game: phone sex with the ex 2 years ago or doggy style with my boyfriend last week. I have a fairly vivid imagination, but I usually stick to guys I've given access to my Lady Gaga instead of friends/roommates/coworkers/etc. Moral of the story: we're imagining the exact same things you are when you get off.

Bidding on LJ's email address begins at $500.

Presidente:

What's your opinion of plugging up the drain in the shower (bathtub showers only, obviously) so lukewarm, soapy water just soaks your feet and ankles the entire time? I've been told by practically everyone I've shared this with that I'm basically soaking my feet in filth and that I'm an abomination. There's gotta be someone else out there that knows what I'm talking about.

I only did that as a kid. Stephen Wright used to say he liked filling the tub and turning on the shower, then acting like he was in a submarine that had just been hit. You're supposed to outgrow that.

Walter:

Every night since high school (maybe earlier) I've used the same pillow. Did I mention I'm 42? That thing is browned like the Shroud of Turin and couldn't possibly be flatter, so I have to use a fluffier pillow below it so that my neck stays nice and level. The second pillow is going on like ten years. They're turning into the Newman-Woodward of pillows.

My wife started with the whole, "You should get rid of this, it's nasty." No way, I cling to that like Linus clutches his blanket. The day I die that pillow will still be on my bed.

A lady wrote in to counter this email.

El:

Dude, seriously, BUY A NEW PILLOW. Those yellow stains are fucking nasty. I don't understand why dudes never replace their pillows. I helped a friend of mine move recently, and I thought this was one of my more neat and orderly male friends, but his pillow was so old and dirty it was practically brown. That shit is unsanitary. Do you know how much pillows cost at Target and Ikea? TEN DOLLARS. There is no reason not to buy a new pillow, or two, or three.

Yes, there is. MY pillow has spent the past decade conforming specifically to my giant tard head. Some new pillow from fucking Target has not. That is why Walter is clutching to his pillow until he hits his deathbed, as will I. We men make a firm commitment to our pillows. We love them, warts and all. Yet you ladyfolk seem all to pleased to drop your old pillow for any new floozy pillow that comes along. Well, I guess I see where your priorities lie. Where's the loyalty, I ask you?

Justice:

Just reading a story about how Charlie Sheen's car was stolen and then found the next morning at the bottom of a cliff. This has to go right into the same lines as your imagining what you would do when trapped in a bank during a robbery: what would you do if you stole a famous person's car? Because I would suspect I would drive around for a while, check the glove compartment for a cell phone containing the numbers of other famous people and then drive it off a cliff at the end of the night, hoping for a Hollywood explosion. These robbers are my heroes.

If it were Sheen's car, I'd check for the phone and then take down the number of every hooker service he used. Because Sheen uses good hookers, and that's a good service to have at your fingertips.

I have stood outside while a mail carrier or someone else gets out of their truck or car and leaves it running. And every time that happens, a little voice in my head urges to me to jump in, pound the gas, and drive it to Mexico. No warning. No planning ahead. Just steal it, driveto a tropical country, grow a mustache, and become an agave farmer. Those running cars are just begging you to do it. How far would you get? Would you even make it fifty miles before you were busted or your conscience fucked with you?

Phil:

Ever had your ears flushed? If you use Q-tips long enough, they will push your ear gunk to the back of your ear canal and over time, there's a serious build-up. The ear flush involves a nurse sticking a baster of warm water into your ear and squeezing it through your canal. It's quite possibly one of the most uncomfortable feelings in the world, but it yields golden wax nuggets one could only dream of. Most legit doctors won't do this procedure anymore because it makes you susceptible to an ear infection, but those sketchy 24-7 Pediatric Clinics will definitely do it. Bonus: your auditory range increases ten-fold after everything is flushed out.

As someone who has an inordinate amount of wax buildup, I've had this procedure done multiple times and never told anyone about it.

Now I wonder how bad my hearing is, because I use Q-Tips all the time, even though I know damn well it pushes wax back into your ear. If I'm missing a solid bassline in that one Mastodon song, I'll never forgive myself.

Ben:

Do you ever get annoyed by how some people reply to Evites? I understand that it's necessary to reply No to provide an accurate headcount, but people just seem to get a LITTLE too much satisfaction with explaining the better things they will be doing instead of attending the party. It's never a simple "We'll be out of town". Instead, it's "Jim and I have a wedding in Palm Beach that weekend". Big bonus points for exotic locations. Even more obnoxious is when the invitation comes in the form of a mass email, and these people choose to Reply to All, so you end up with a dozen of these emails from people you don't even know.

I also get frustrated with Evite because I want to know the exact guest list for the party, but some people have their user names listed on the Evite, and I can't parse them for shit. Who is JK098? Is that Jim? Or is that Jen? Because Jim is cool, and Jen is a total cunt. I don't want to go to that party if I know some shithead will be there. I demand greater transparency from Evite.

There are also people who never respond to the Evite, which will completely freak you out as the party grows closer and closer. Are these fuckers even coming or not? Why couldn't they click a button? And who's that prick that answered MAYBE? Fuck him in the pants.

Also, I've noticed that, as a married person, every party of every year falls on the same fucking date. No one spaces out their parties. I'll have a dry run for months where I'm not invited to jack shit. Then, when two assholes finally do decide to throw a party, they pick the same day. Space that shit out, people.

Jeff:

I can comfortably withstand the rumble of an impending dump for hours without a problem. But when I get anywhere near a bathroom it seems like the shit is often times bursting out of me before I can even get my ass down on the bowl. My question…is there some kind of toilet recognition system hardwired into the human anatomy that would explain my frequent close calls or am I just really good at waiting until the very last second to hit the can? Personally I think there must me some kind of sphincter sonar mechanism at play. I'd have to be the Kobe Bryant of crapping to keep sinking all of these buzzer beaters.

You do have a toilet recognition system. It's called your eyes. When they see the toilet is near, that tells the brain you can begin the process of declenching.

Ken:

I dated a woman named Ruth a number of years ago. After her and her husband got divorced he a few years earlier, he bought a boat, and named it RUTHLESS.

I thought that was the funniest thing ever, and deep down she did also.

Well played, divorced man. Very well played.

Foreskin Gump:

What's the deal with guys who cross their legs in the feminine, non figure-four position? The girth of my legs makes attempting it impossible, but there's no way that anyone with even one ball can find it comfortable to sit like that. Not to mention that doing so makes you look like a prick.

Know who does that all the time? LUPICA. Watch the Sports Reporters and you'll see it. It's a pretentious move because it's done solely for the sake of shoe display. Lupica wants you to know those Kenneth Coles ran him $400.

On the flipside, there is something most awesome about watching a woman assume that position. "Basic Instinct" aside, there are few things more satisfying than a very hot woman going on a late night show wearing a short skirt, then she sits down and makes the move to that pose. I could replay that 1,000 times.

Richard:

I have dated a girl since 2006, we got engaged in 2008, we're getting married in 4 months and we have yet to kiss. We both wanted to forgo sex until marriage for religious reasons, and thus we (was a mutual decision and I had the final say either way) decided that the thought of years of kissing and making out with no sex would be more frustrating than enjoyable.

That being said, I can tell you the number of days, hours, and minutes until the wedding night.

Enjoy the crushing bout of impotence, brother. That's what happens when you don't practice.

Alex:

Q-Tips suck. If you want pure bliss, try using a paperclip to scrape the orange matter from your inner ear. It's like scratching that one place on your back that you can't reach (you know that place). As an added bonus, you can see the fruits of your labor immediately. Try it, you won't be disappointed.

The rounded end? He has to mean the rounded end. Undoing it and using the sharp end would be like playing Russian Roulette. I dislike the idea of wiry, metal objects entering my body.

Zach:

When you're in the bathroom and both you and a neighbor are finishing up (ie: you hear the toilet paper rolling, toilet flushing, belts being buckled) at the same time, do you try and stagger your exit so that you don't have that awkward moment at the sink with the other person? I will stand in my stall, peering through the crack and waiting for the other person to leave before I show my face.

Only if there's just one sink. Standing behind the guy waiting to use the sink feels like it takes a million years.

Smokey:

Last week my buddy Brian stopped by his usual liquor store to get his usual post-work sixer of beer before heading home. He gets in line to check out when this hand grabs his shoulder and spins him around. Turning, he finds a middle-aged Hispanic guy staring back at him. The man speaks very defiantly and says, "Tomorrow: you wear red and you take a different route to work," and with that, he leaves the store. Since we live in Hollywood, my first reaction was that this was something gang-related, but not Brian. Brian could not discount the possibility that this guy might be a time-traveler from the future and he could be saving his life. If he was a time-traveler: do you think he was trying to help Brian, or are the odds greater that he was just fucking with someone in the past because he could?

I think the guy behind him as high as fuck, is what I think. Still, I'd heed his advice. What's the harm? Red flatters most men.

I would like to work up the nerve to do this to people at random points. I could get away with this if I were 90 years old and Romanian. When I'm an old man, I'm just going to walk up to people at the bank and say to them BEWARE THE CRIMSON MOON. My old age will lend my warning credence. It'll completely fuck up the person I've warned. "What did he mean? What will happen when the crimson moon hits? Fuck, is it going to snow AGAIN?"

Brock:

After going through a drive-thru, is it humanly possible to NOT eat the french fries straight out of the bag when driving?

No. And I always make it a point to dig into someone else's serving, so that mine remains full until proper eating time.

Anonymous:

I work for an arm of the Justice Department. Through the work I'm assigned I sometimes find myself in meetings with operational staff from the various clandestined service agencies. Being a lower-level grunt in the DOJ I'm never really privy to the exact position that these folks hold but rumors float that some of them are former spooks (not in that way, racist). One woman in particular is rumored to have been a total bad-ass during the Cold War. She is a heavyset, mid/late 40's-ish lesbian and she looks EXACTLY like you. Dead f'n ringer. When she walks into the room my buddy and I spend the next 45 minutes trying to contain our collective shit so as not to wind up with some cyanide in our Splenda.

Assuming that rumors of her former experience are true, it is possible that someone from the Eastern European intelligence community could mistake you for her (again, the likeness is unf'ncanny). If I'm you, I stay away from Eastern Europe for the foreseeable future.

P.S. If this is woman your mom, I'm sorry I called your mom a lesbian.

It's not my mom. IT'S ME. And I'm a double agent! You fools! You have all been deceived! Your candid confessions about shitting and masturbating are just what Mother Russia needs to rule the world once more!

Anon:

I figured that, since you're such a big fan of toilets, I'd give you some insight into how they're "performance tested" by the toilet makers. I work in the plumbing industry, so I have way too much insight into how this works. There are a bunch of different tests that manufacturers do to test toilet performance, including flushing down large marbles (the "hard poop" test), flushing tiny little granules (the "poop dust" test) and flushing wads of paper (the "tampon" test). While these tests are fun to perform in our lab, none of them compare to the mother of all toilet tests: The miso paste test.

The idea for this test is to simulate as closely as possible how a toilet flushes real poop. Obviously, they can't have somebody drop a deuce for test purposes on a consistent basis, so you need to find a compound that is as close to poop as possible. A couple of guys discovered that the closest they could get to the real thing was a certain brand of miso paste (the stuff that the Japanese make soup with). What makes this version special versus other kinds is that it's density is the rough equivalent to human poop, so it's the ideal ingredient to make a simulated turd. Of course, since it's meant to dissolve in water, you have to put the miso paste into something to prevent it from creating toilet soup. You needed something that was durable enough not to leak, something that was pliable enough that it could be molded a little and something that was as close in natural shape as possible to a real log. There is one product available out there that fit the bill perfectly: condoms. Yes, they take a rubber, stuff it with the fake crap, tie the condom up and then drop it into the bowl. They even have a cutout that sits on the seat to simulate an ass, so the poop is dropped in where it usually would be. They flush the toilet and make sure that everything goes down exactly the way it should.

As if the test isn't fun enough, they track exactly how much poop (in grams) a toilet can suck down in a single flush. Your top end toilets have to be able to flush 1,000 grams worth of fake crap down without clogging or floating up after the flush. That's 2.2 pounds of shit. Most people don't produce that in a day, let alone in one sitting, but it's a good thing to know for the morning after a bad night at the local Mexican joint.

All of this testing is meant to guarantee that your toilet can handle anything you can drop into it, from the usual solid logs to the most liquidy, disgusting diarrhea. Something to think about the next time you're sitting on the throne (or eating miso soup).

That is the most fascinating thing I've ever read. I also, I can never drink miso soup with my Japanese takeout again. Such a shame. It was like drinking salt. I liked that.

Wahoo:

You wrote about the joys of Q-tips, well allow me to tell you a cautionary tale. My buddy Keith was digging deep for a chunk of wax recently when the phone rang. Without thinking he spun to go get it, catching his elbow on the door frame and jamming the q-tip in his ear. Punctured eardrum. Worst pain he ever felt, blood gushing out of his ear and it screwed up his equilibrium so he fell several times on the way to the emergency room. After 45 minutes of bleeding all over the ER and suffering awful pain he got to see a doc. The doc said "Yep, punctured ear drum." and sent him to see a specialist. Another hour of bleeding and screaming later the ear doctor had to hold Keith's head down while sticking a long needle into his ear so he could push the small flap of skin back in place. It took a half dozen attempts.

Then I'll skip using the paper clip, thank you very much.

Target: Not as charming as the ads may suggest

Anon:

In high school, I was employed by Target as a cashier/electronics associate. I'll spare you the sob story, but during the course of my employment there my grandmother became very ill unexpectedly, and the prognosis was very bad. One day while working my shift, I got a text from my uncle saying that things did not look good for my grandmother (who was in the hospital), and I should come say goodbye. I jogged over to my boss and explained the situation to her, and asked her if I could leave early. "No," she said, "Not unless I talk to one of her doctors on the phone to make sure you're not lying." I could only stare blankly for a minute, and then realized she wasn't, in fact, shitting me. I then basically turned around and left anyway.

Turns out my grandmother didn't pass away that day, but several days later. When I returned to work, I discovered that she had submitted a recommendation to her boss that I be fired for "Concocting an excuse to get out of work early." So, as a result of my fucking bitch of a boss, I had to go through a "coaching" (basically a management review board) explaining to my bosses that I wasn't in fact lying about the scope of my grandmother's illness. On the day after her funeral. Management sympathized with my situation, but my boss never faced any disciplinary action; In fact, she's now manager of the store. I know you're not supposed to name names in these things, but Michelle: Swallow a fucking knife, twat.

Friendly's: Come for the ice cream, stay for the unconscious groping

Terence:

My first job ever was as a dishwasher at a Friendly's restaurant. I, along with most of the staff (except for this shockingly terrifying fellow nicknamed 'X-Ray' who had a tattoo of a fucking bat on his shaved head, which like, holy shit) were in our mid-teens. I was around 15 personally. My boss at the time was a short middle-aged fat guy who looked like Ron Jeremy if he had been dipped in a vat of cooking oil and set out to dry for a few hours, a truly disgusting guy.

What made this guy even MORE disgusting is that he quite obviously had a thing for underage girls. A particularly harrowing tale comes from one evening when I was forced to go to the emergency room. I had slashed open a finger on a broken coke glass and was bleeding quite a bit. Now, one of the waitresses I worked with was terrified of blood and couldn't stand to see a scratch let alone the horror show that my finger had become. I called for help and she was the first person to arrive and, because of the gore, promptly passed the fuck out on the floor. My horrid boss was the next to show up in the backroom and, after assessing my injury and it's immediate need of an emergency room, went over to the waitress, who was maybe 16, and tried to help her up. He pretty much groped every inch of her body in the most horrifically disgusting manner possible. She was barely coming out of her stupor when he finally got her into a chair having thoroughly violated every moral and ethical code I would have thought possible in the workplace. Soon after, as he was driving me to the emergency room, he explained to me the merits of one of his life long codes, which was, as you could guess, "if there's grass on the field, play ball". I gained more than one scar for sure that night. What a fucking douchebag.

I do not care for your clicking

Mike:

My boss is so critical, he once told me that I double-clicked my mouse too fast. As in, my double-click was so quick that my computer couldn't register/process it. So he had me double-click the program on my desktop again, this time "more deliberately". Of course, my computer was simply being slow, and after several minutes of waiting the same program opened up twice.

"Your daughter's a whore."

Joe:

This guy would pick one employee at random each week to dress down in front of everyone else. He'd thunder into the room where all the desks were, park himself in front of someone's desk and lay into them. Sometimes it would be about their actual work performance, stuff like, "Your sales numbers are pathetic. What are you doing all day, jacking off in the men's room?" But most of the time it was personal stuff. There was one woman there who was going through a messy divorce and her teenage daughter was acting out because of all the stress at home. The boss guy stood at the entrance to her workstation, with his considerable girth blocking any exit, and started in with stuff like, "So, I hear your daughter is fucking half the basketball team just to piss you off now. You're a great fucking mother, aren't you?"

Some of the shit this guy did was just unbelievable and incredibly hateful. One day, he walked up to a the woman who managed the office, a very meek and mild mannered lady who everyone in the office loved, and he just started mocking how she was dressed, how she'd put on weight (like he had room to criticize anyone for gaining weight) how ridiculous her hair style was, making fun of the decorations on her desk and even going so far as to pick up a picture of one of her kids and say something like, "How'd your boy end up so good looking? I've met your husband. What'd you do, fuck the mailman?" With that, the woman he was harassing snapped. She stood up, grabbed the fresh cup of hot coffee from her desk and threw it into his face. Then she told him to shove his fucking job up his ass so far that it came out his mouth and left. We never saw her again. It was weeks before he went back to his weekly pattern of fucking with some random person after that.

Eventually, it was my turn. But on the day he decided to dump on me I guess he'd ran out of ammo and just stood at my desk and said, "You're useless. You're fired." For years after working there I would daydream of the massive coronary that I'm certain killed that bastard.