Okay, the mailbag was so overstuffed this week that I had to split it into two parts. Today, we're gonna do the general mailbag shit. Then for Friday's FKS post, because so many of you had a worthy viewpoint on it, we'll have a very special mailbag dedicated solely to settling the whole sitting vs. standing while wiping issue once and for all. Please, don't send any more letters on this topic. We now have this area more than covered.

Now let's dive into this beast.

Anonymous:

I play minor league baseball, so obviously we spend the majority of our time in hotels. Usually Latinos are roomed with Latinos, and Americans with Americans, further adding to the division that already exists there. But occasionally the numbers don't match up so a Latin and American are roomed together, providing the Americans with rare insight into their ways. Now Latinos treasure their sleep like few other things, so they have used their ingenuity to devise a way not to get out of bed: the hotel ice bucket. Simply grab that bad boy and put it on the nightstand before you fall asleep, then in the morning all you have to do is roll over, flop it out, and let it rip, all without having to take that laborious walk to the bathroom and exposing yourself to those harmful, awakening rays of light. We all found this pretty fucking disgusting, but I thought you might appreciate it.

Oh, and as an aside, Latinos don't flush their used toilet paper either, putting it in the garbage can instead. It provides a very distinctive, undigested Chipotle smell to their rooms.

Now wait a second, what real Latino player is gonna go have dinner at Chipotle? That's a disgrace. If you're a card-carrying Latino person and you eat at Chipotle, shame on you. SHAME ON YOU.

Use of the hotel ice bucket reminds me of college. Every guy I knew back in college would usually piss by draining it in to an empty Colt .45 bottle and then leaving it. This was done because A) It was convenient, and B) Obvious comedic misunderstandings would result should someone mistake the piss bottle for an actual bottle of malt liquor. All things considered, I'd rather drink from a piss bottle by accident than a dip spit bottle by accident. When I went to Michigan for a semester, guys in South Quad would piss into empty Snapple bottles and then chuck them out the window when the bottles became too numerous. Keep in mind, there was a perfectly functional bathroom mere steps away. But we pissed in Snapple bottles anyway. TAKE THAT, LAZY DOMINICANS!

In a way, I sympathize with the Latinos not wanting to use the john to piss at night or in the early morning. There are two kinds of darkness in the world. There's regular darkness, and then there is hotel room darkness. The inner shade used by most hotels could repel light even if the sun was five fucking feet from your window. Walking through a dark hotel room is like swimming in petroleum. Visibility is virtually nil. Also, if you're like me, you go to great lengths to make sure those shades are drawn as tightly as possible, so that you don't get that Staff of Ra beam of light blasting through the crack the next morning. That is a fucking brutal ray of light, right there. Opening those hotel room shades feels like you just went onto the stage at the Met.

Chris:

I live in Seattle, so most of the people are, like me, transplants from somewhere else. Was talking at the bar the other night with a bunch of my buddies and someone brought up the subject of the great game that was Smear the Queer. They were right - it was a great game. I am really astonished I made it through childhood playing games that were basically an excuse for 5 guys to beat the crap out of the moron who happened to be carrying the ball.

However, almost everyone at the table was from different parts of the country. Yet even though they grew up separated by thousands of miles, with no internet to transmit the rules or, more importantly, the name of the game, everyone knew exactly what we were talking about.

How the fuck does that happen?

As a coincidence, I got a call this week from my sister-in-law, which went something like this:

HER: Hey Drew, you're a big football fan, right?

ME: Yup.

HER: Okay, I was wondering if you could settle something for me. (My wife's brother) told me that, when he was a kid, he played some horrible game called… Smear the Queer? Is that a real game? I bet him that he was making it all up.

ME: No, that's a real game. The guy with the ball is the queer, and you try and kick his ass.

HER: That's horrible.

ME: Yeah well, what are you gonna do. Pony up to your hubby, girlfriend.

Now, my brother-in-law grew up in Maryland. I played STQ when my family lived in Chicago when I was about 5 or so. So there's two places the game was played. It is amazing, when you think about it. It shows you just how prevalent homophobia is amongst violent kindergarteners. Who knew?

Rich:

Dude, they make THC infused lolipops. My buddy got them at a dispensary in Denver and took them to the Steelers-Broncos game. All positive reviews. He is supposed to UPS some to me but he is lazy as shit.

Of course he's lazy as shit. He's on THC-infused lollipops.

Mike:

Just thought I'd share some information about those fentanyl pops. First of all, they're 100x stronger than morphine because fentanyl doses are measured in MICROgrams (or some crazy small unit like that) whereas morphine is milligrams. It doesn't mean it's more powerful than morphine necessarily, it's just that if you were to take the same amount of fentanyl as you would morphine you'd probably die.

Oooh, death. THE ULTIMATE HIGH.

I have been fortunate enough to try these lollipops recreationally (and not because I have cancer), and let me tell you that if they were more readily available I would certainly have been on Intervention myself. You suck on the thing for like 2 minutes and you feel awesome for 5 hours. And they taste good and smell like cotton candy. Far and away the best drug (besides maybe LSD) that I've ever experienced. The best part is you can it do anytime, anywhere. Sitting in class, driving around, watching TV with relatives, it doesn't matter.

God damn, that sounds great. I wish I were an eight year old with leukemia.

I was watching parts of "Intervention" last night, and the story centered on Greg, who became addicted to morphine after falling 20 feet and shattering his lower back. Greg said he needed the medicine to get rid of the pain, or else he was in pain 24 hours a day, regardless of standing, sitting, or laying down. And his family thought he was bullshitting.

Let me tell you something, Greg's family: When your lower back is shattered, and they have to build a cage around your spine because it got fucking crushed, there's a very good chance you will end up in chronic, agonizing pain. Pain that is completely immune to the likes of Tylenol3, Percocet, and Vicodin. No bullshit. Take it from someone who has had similar pain. Let that man have his morphine, dammit. Greg ain't bullshitting. It's either 24-hour anguish, or an addiction that will ruin his life. I'd take addiction in an instant.

Another Brian:

I'm sure you're gonna get a lot of emails about this, but Tony Iommi of Black Sabbath also uses a Gibson SG and many would argue that he is as influential/badass, if not more so than Angus Young.

My fuckup.

/hits self with guitar

Dan:

Am I the only person who has to have a list before you go grocery shopping? Not just any old list either, it must be in order of where those items are in the store. I always start on the far left of the store with Beer and by the time I'm done I'm at the exact opposite end where the fruits and vegetables (and cheese) are. A few weeks ago my wife made a shopping list with no regard to my listing system and it fucked me all up! I spent twice as long as I normally do and I must have criss-crossed the store 5 times... Is list-ordering normal or do I have OCD or what?

You do NOT have OCD. I make a list for the grocery store (largely because the Mrs. did it when I married her). She, like you, arranges the list in order of store placement. Going to some other store completely ruins the list.

I view any trip to the grocery store where I have to double back as a complete fucking failure. And 100% of my trips are failures. I always miss something on the list, or I misjudge where something is. Or they moved an item to a front-aisle display and I have no fucking clue where it is. I also have trouble just SEEING the item. There are times when you will find me in the store, staring at the cans for 15-minute chunks because I know the kidney beans are in that section, but I am unable to locate them.

Side note: On Sunday, I went to the store. Everyone knows Sunday afternoon is a peak time for grocery buying. So I walk into the store, and not only are they still stocking aisles (i.e., giant stocking carts are blocking the aisles, preventing traffic flow), but they also had out free sample display table that further restricted available aisle space. It wasn't even good free samples, either. It was mock crab salad on a water cracker. FUCK YOU, GROCERY STORE. Aisle space is precious. DO NOT FUCK WITH IT. There needs to be enough space in the aisle for no less than three carts to fit side by side, so you can pass the asshole old lady parked in the center of the aisle on either side. And to those of you non-old people who park your cart in the center of the aisle, just know that I will kill you. I will find your house, and I will sneak inside and murder you and your family.

Jordan:

Shampoo or liquid body wash to wash your balls? I like to mix it up, and usually go liquid soap if I use my wife's loofa but will go shampoo if just applying directly.

I too go both ways. I use leftover hair lather to foam the nuts, then I finish off with the shower poof. You cannot get your nuts clean enough. I've tried using leftover hair lather for masturbatory purposes. Not terribly effective. I pull a glute trying to jerk in the shower.

Kid Canada:

What's your opinion on the ticker that runs at the bottom of the screen during Sportscenter/re? It drives me batshit insane when I am watching highlights of a game to which I don't know the result, and just as they're building suspense for the outcome, the fucking score flashes at the bottom of the screen! To use a Canadian example (sorry), I was watching highlights of the Grey Cup, and while the highlights are in the middle of the third quarter, MONTREAL 28, SASKATCHEWAN 27 (F) scrolls on the ticker. Fabulous, that in no way detracted from the suspense for me!

I concur. On the rare occasion that I don't know the outcome, I have taken to placing my hand over the BottomLine in an attempt to block it. But it is amazing how the BottomLine is timed to reveal critical scores only at the exact moment you don't wish to know them. This is why the Internet is so very important.

Travis:

My least favorite part about the holidays is figuring out for whom I'm obligated to buy gifts. And, what the hell do you get them?

I have the same problem every year now. I'm going to my folks' house for the holiday. Fourteen people will squeeze into the house for a week, including six kids under 5 years old. My wife suggested we just do gifts Secret Santa style, so we only have to get gifts for one person or one family. But my mom said, "No, no. We'll just do gifts for the kids and stockings for the adults."

Well, FUCK MAN. Filling a stocking for someone is a bitch. Now I can't just buy one stupid gift. I have to buy many very small gifts for all 14 goddamn people. Bullshit. Then there are the in-laws, and friends, and Leitch, and all these other people. I say NO Xmas gifts for anyone but your family. Ever. Especially if you're over 21. No one over 21 ever needs a fucking gift for anything.

Aly:

Do you openly discuss your wife's pooping habits as much as you discuss your own?

When I first did standup, one of the stories I told was about the time my wife came running up to me one day urgently and we had this exchange:

HER: I just realized we're eating too many fatty foods.

ME: How do you know that, apart from the fact that I'm fat?

HER: (whispers despite no one else being in the room) Because I took a shit and it floated.

ME: I don't love you anymore.

She was not pleased about me divulging that bit of information.

Heyzeus:

Do you know what sucks? Buying toilet paper. I decided, once I reached a certain station in life, that I was only going with the good stuff henceforth. Shitty toilet paper requires you to fold over like 8 sheets per wipe, and still leaves little pieces of paper stuck in your bunghole. I'm willing to pay that wopping extra dollar for quality.

So why do stores make it so fucking hard for me to do so? First of all, two ply is a given standard. So why do they write the ply count in tiny letters hidden somewhere on the plastic wrap?

Not only that, but certain toilet paper brands have changed. Quilted Northern used to be very thick and velvety. BUT THEY CHANGED THE FORMULA, I TELL YOU. It became fucking Scott Tissue overnight. Cottonelle changed too. It's not even ply count that matter anymore. You can get two-ply that's thinner than a pencil line. Cheap fuckers.

Tom:

I just finished reading your latest mailbag and wait...you don't have a DVR?!? You fucking shithead—don't you realize that a complete moron would NOT have DVR service??? Seriously, not having DVR in 2009 is like my one friend who refused to get a cell phone until about 2007 because "he just didn't really need it". Yeah, he was a moron too. He'd be like, "Hey, you guys went out for happy hour last night? why didn't anyone tell me!?!" Because nobody knows how the fuck to find you, fucktard!

Oh, you think I like the fact that I don't have DVR? You think I don't know EXACTLY what the fuck I'm missing? You think I haven't explained to the wife that having DVR is more important than paying for COBRA benefits, only to have it fall on deaf ears? FUCK YOU.

Cam:

I'm from New Zealand and we have Xmas during summer. I don't know if you've ever considered this to be a good or bad thing but it fucken rules. You Northern Hemisphere folks can have your snow and hot egg-nog, we have fucken sunshine and cold beer. Almost every household has a BBQ on Christmas Day, it's fucken bliss.

We've got it all sweet down here.

Well, go fuck a sheep, Frodo. I bet you have a DVR too. ISN'T LIFE JUST PEACHY FOR YOU? Asshole.

Mike:

How the fuck can you make a suicide pick and lose three times? It's a suicide pick. How many fuckers succeed at suicide and get to do it two more times? This type of ass-baggary makes you slightly less intelligent than John Clayton's hair bun.

Point taken.

William:

Hi Drew, did you get a memo sent out by the NFL that all phraseology previously used to describe blocking (you know, like sealing or pancaking) is heretofore rendered obsolete. Each gamecast must now contain the phrase "setting the edge" a minimum of 4 times.

THIS GUY… you talk abut SETTING THE EDGE!

Danny:

HBO was showing the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame concert over the weekend. BB King, U2, Bruce, Metallica, Stevie Wonder, Ozzy, Aretha Franklin, Sting, Billy Joel among others. Not that you had to dig all their music, but they were on top of their particular game for decades and were recognizable for their talent regardless of genre. 20 years from now, what bands/artists are playing that show? Or will they have shuttered the place by then?

I assume they'll just bring those same assholes back for another round. Just like the NFL will have to start repeating old performers again in few years. The Who are about the last old act they have left. Tom Petty will be back.

They'll probably have Beyonce and Justin Timberlake and Coldplay on stage 20 years from now. And Mick Jagger, because the Hall is run by Jann Wenner, and Jann Wenner can't take a shit without asking Mick Jagger for permission first.

Jeff:

Perhaps you have discussed this at some other point, but one underrated thing about parenthood (once the kids gets get off the breast or the bottle) is the whole milk. You ever drink this? You practically have to chew it. Whole milk and sugary cereal is a delight. And since the milk is for your kid, you don't feel guilty or like a fatass for purchasing it.

See, I have the opposite reaction to whole milk. I'm so used to skim milk, the thickness of whole milk disturbs me. I feel like I'm drinking human breast milk.

Also, I've gotten out of control eating all my kid's leftover food. It's gotten to the point where I don't even ask my kid twice if she's done with the dinosaur chicken nugget. I just eat it right off the bat, then the Mrs. hits my hand with a ruler.

Nick:

Thank you for calling out people who affect accents. I specifically decided NOT to study abroad in college because so many of my friends came back with that stupid fucking British lilt at the end of questions (eg, "Should we go to the pub, then?"). Equally awful were the people who, entirely without being asked, would interject their self-serving "When I was in Dublin..." anecdotes where they didn't belong, or would steer the conversation back toward their study abroad experience ("This steak is good, but when I was in Argentina, we had REAL steak.") Which is worse, accent affectation or HEY LISTEN TO ME I'VE TRAVELED anecdotes?

The accent. I'll confess right now. I say "cheers" instead of "thanks" sometimes, because I liked that they did that in England. KOGOD hates this and thinks I'm a complete asshat for doing it. Fair enough, OLD CHAP!

I had one friend who came back from England and called college "university" after that. As in, "When I was at university…" I wanted to punch him in the sternum when he did that.

INTERMISSION!

Ian:

The whole top/bottom thing is way overplayed by the media. Most gay guys I know may have one preference over the other (which is kinda why the delineation is there, so you know how a one-night pickup is going to end) but still do both. Exclusively "tops" are way too selfish, exclusive "bottoms" are too passive in my opinion. I think healthy relationships do share pitching duties. Plus, sharing duties is a great excuse to have more sex, which you can never go wrong with.

Indeed. More gay sex for me, please! I wonder what two bottoms do when they end up hooking up inadvertently. Imagine them both "presenting" themselves for each other. Awkward! "Look, usually I'm the one who gets it… Oh, god dammit. Do you have Fred Smoot's number?"

Chris:

Drew, do you ever inexplicably continue to eat something that has no taste/tastes bad? I just realized that these pita chips SUCK and should only ever be used as a vessel for humus/cheese intake. Yet I have no hummus or cheese, and I'm not really hungry, but I continue to snack on these wafers of terribility. Wtf?

I also do this, because I am fat. But fear not, Chris. It's not your fault. Much of your food is engineered that way. No lie. When I worked on the Hershey account, one of the products they came up with were Hershey Bites, bite-sized little balls of various candy put in a pouch. The reason they invented this was to encourage what is known in the food industry as mindless munching, which is when you eat for the sake of eating, usually between meals. So they came up with Hershey's Bites, so you would eat candy in that situation, as opposed to a candy bar, which is an impulse purchase people make for a snack. In other words, they didn't want you eating Bites at the expense of not buying a candy bar. They were trying to invent a second occasion in the day in which you would eat candy. And they succeeded. Because eating more candy is better than eating the same amount of candy.

John:

Do you ever eat while shitting?

Usually not. The cardinal rule (taken from Men With Balls) is that you should never eat while watching pornography. But I've eaten while pooping. Usually, it's to finish eating something. Like, I'm eating a granola bar, then a turtle pops up, so I bring it in with me. That's the only time I do it. My wife is repulsed by this. If you're taking a plate of waffles under a silver dome with you to the shitter, that would be odd.

Matt:

Is it possible to order a coke from McDonalds and not press in the Diet and Other tabs on the lid? I'm not sure its physically possible to resist that temptation.

Agreed.

Rob:

Speaking of kiddie farts in this past week's mailbag, have you ever made this mistake? As a new parent, I learned my lesson quick. Basically, your kid makes a loud, quasi-shitting fart, that to the untrained ear could easily be one or the other. In a effort to asses and deal with the situation quickly, you go in for a quick sniff check, and inhale WAYYYYY too hard. It's basically akin to taking a babyfart bong rip. Just awful.

Still not as bad as emptying the diaper pail. Like I said, emptying the diaper pail is like being gangbanged with farts.

Hank Scorpio:

Recently on my way home, I found myself behind a Smart car. You know, the tiny, eco-friendly vehicle that has become the auto of choice for hipster doofuses who used to drive Mini Coopers but instead now want to appear Mother Earth friendly?

The kicker was that this particular car's vanity plate read: SMART IQ. I swear I've never been more fucking incensed by a custom plate than this one. I found myself praying that the stop arm on the railroad tracks we were approaching would malfunction and that the car would be flattened by a northbound Conrail freight train.

Agreed. Huge douche plate.

Heather:

What language do people who are multilingual think in? Is it their primary language? Is it the language that they are speaking at that moment? Or does it depend on the subject?

My mother-in-law is from Germany, and though she's lived here for over two decades, she still thinks and dreams mostly in German. But I don't think it's a hard and fast rule. All I know is that if I had to spend 25 years speaking one language and thinking in another, my brain would collapse.

Ward:

Is there a movie, as a heterosexual man, you like that other men would consider really gay? One time my college roommate and I were flipping through the channels and I skipped over the movie "Ghost." He screamed for me to go back because it was on. Also, my 50 year old dad LOVES the movie "She's All That." He'll watch it every time it is on TV. I will watch any movie that has Hugh Grant. What's yours?

Does "About A Boy" count? No? Then, "Bridget Jones Diary". I'm fine with any chick flick that has British people and curse words in it. Except "Notting Hill."

Patrick:

I have a question for your fe-mailbag readership: WHAT is with the goddamned hair in the drain!?!/!1! (My GOD! Do I shed that much too? Why isn't my shit in the drain?) Why do I have to be the one to grab a heaping wad of TP and fish out the sizeable hairwad so we don't have to shower in Waterworld? Every guy I know that has lived with a girl has had the same experience. Does this issue disappear magically once you marry?

No. Why would it disappear upon marriage? You didn't even mention the hairbrush. Most girls have a hairbrush that looks like a working loom. It's like a cotton candy cone. You could pull a full toupee for Jeffrey Tambor out of that hairbrush.

My wife also has nine different hairbrushes. No clue why. Oh. that's the curling brush? Okay then.

Jo:

My wife used to think I was the fucking king at building stuff. You name it, I could put it together with the right tools and enough beer. Now, thanks to IKEA, she feels that she should go through the assembly process for ANYTHING with me. New table? Yup. Floor Lamp? Definitely. Electronic toothbrush? No question.

This has all stemmed from ONE time when I was putting together a huge bookshelf from those Swedish bastards She asks "What's wrong?" I say "Some of these drawings are really vague". She gets this worried look in her eyes like I've just told her I can't actually read or write. I get about 4 more steps in and realize that I have to go back to that step because those two table legs that were the SAME GODDAMN SIZE AS THE GUY were actually small little connectors that I thought went in later on.

Since then we get to spend "quality time" assembling things while I try not to yell at her for getting in the way and she gets mad at me for my tone. It always starts out like she's just going to watch and be an extra pair of hands but then it turns into the fucking Amazing Race as we argue over instructions and stop speaking to each other for a day or two.

Yup. Same boat here. I start putting shit together, then my lady will come over to check on my handiwork. "Are you sure that's supposed to be like that?" NO. I HAVE NO FUCKING IDEA. BUT I AM A GROWN MAN AND CAN SORT THIS OUT ON MY OWN. NOW PISS OFF AND LEAVE ME THE LAST VESTIGE OF MY MANHOOD.

The worst thing is that, when your wife comes over to have a look, that's exactly the moment you've fucked up. ALWAYS. God always choreographs it so you look as incompetent as possible in front of your spouse. FUCK YOU, GOD.

Dan:

Am I the only one who gets a total fucking chub every time one of those Rosetta Stone commercials with the chick with the perfect face and cleavage comes on? I swear I can't even count the number of times I've been watching TV at night (after the Mrs goes to bed) and seen that commercial and just started furiously beating it. And she's not even my type, I prefer the blonde hair/blue eyed look. Am I the only guy who this chick makes unbelievably horny every time I see her?

The woman in question is Lesliey Ann Machado. She's the Joan Halloway of Rosetta Stone. Heaving breasts translate in any language.

Fogg:

How does your mom handle the subject matter/language of your posts? I assume, like any mom, she reads all your stuff and would, under normal circumstances, forward it on without mercy to unsuspecting friends and family.

Everyone in my family knows what I write and where I write, but the subject matter is NEVER, ever discussed, which is how I like it. One Father's Day, my dad sidled up to me and said:

DAD: So am I a five-throwgasm dad or what?

ME: Dad, that's fucking disgusting. Don't use that word. Ever.

DAD: Okay.

Chad:

One of the things I hate most about ESPN's stupid NFL power rankings are the stupid, pithy comments that accompany each team's ranking. They put the most obvious, short-sighted bullshit stuff on there. AND THEN THEY GIVE EACH COMMENT A FUCKING BYLINE!

For example: "Three straight losses should have the Steelers concerned about their playoff chances" (Chadiha).

WOW, THANKS JEFFREY CHADIHA! WHAT MOTHERFUCKING INSIGHT YOU HAVE! YOU ARE TRULY AN NFL INSIDER!

They clearly need to set the edge!

Jeff:

What is the appropriate level of cleanliness for a plate that you're about to put in the dishwasher? I tend to completely rinse my dishes before putting them in the washer and almost always feel like a d-bag for doing so. But every time I leave a little smear of dried goodness on a plate a little bit ends up surviving the cleaning cycle. A follow up, if you suggest that I do some amount of plate cleaning before putting my dishes in the washer should I use a sponge or my personal favorite rinsing technique, the hot water erosion method?

You need a better dishwasher, but most decent ones can get that last little bit of crap off the plate. But yes, for plate rinsing, I also prefer the hot water erosion method, where you sit there for five minutes, wasting hundreds of gallons of water in hopes that the heat and water pressure will blast off the cheese and you don't actually have to wipe the plate with a sponge or brush. That's real work, and I don't like that.

Jessen:

"my DNA Fragrance is a unique perfume company, which designs one-of-a-kind fragrances based on your DNA genetic code"

What would yours smell like?

I think mine would be a combination of whiskey, Qdoba and laziness.

Poop, Yuengling, and salmon oil.

Tom:

Do you get disappointed when you drop a big one, only you can't tell how big because it starts to snake its way down the toilet? You those mirror things SWAT teams use to look under cars and around corners? Someone needs to invent one of those to see how big turds are.

I do get annoyed when the front of the hole obscures the rest of the poop. You know what every toilet needs? It needs a water level measure on the side. Just little hash marks. That way, you'd know the volume of water displaced, the difference being the volume of your poop. Then you could keep trying to set personal bests.

John V:

You talk a lot about going to the bathroom but you never talk about washing your hands after.

When I'm out in public I notice some people are putting the soap directly onto their dry hands. Don't these people know that you don't get suds unless you wet your hands first? Where's the fun in that? You just got finished arching your stream for maximum bubbles in the toilet, it would make sense that you'd want to create a mighty lather in the sink. So Drew, are you a soap-on-dry-hands guy?

Also, I don't feel the need to wash my hands after I use the bathroom at home unless things get messy. I don't have anyone to impress there.

I never wash my hands after pissing in the middle of the night. But often, my wife, who I assume is dead asleep, will hear me NOT washing my hands and send back to wash them before getting back into bed. She even listens for the soap to be pumped. Women are skilled and evil creatures.

Eric:

Why doesn't FOX run a fantasy ticker? CBS always runs one, and it's fucking great. All FOX gives you are the scores with no stats or anything. Fucking terrible.

Well then, there'd be no room for the robot! Can't have that.

Jordi:

Does your wife ask you to do things, or tell you? I tend to respond to women telling me what to do with the question "is that a demand or a question?". Needless to say, it never ends well.

Agreed. I don't like the "order phrased as a question." Hey Drew, would you like to do the dishes? Uh, no.

I had a boss once who phrased everything this way. One day, I finally snapped. She said, "Do you wanna file all this stuff?" I said, "Honestly? No." She stormed off in a huff. Hey, YOU ASKED.

Anuj:

A friend, who is a surgeon, told me that he once performed surgery on a patient who for unknown reasons, had an extra coil, of almost a foot, of large intestine. The man had been living with this his whole life, and finally decided the pain was too much to bear. The interesting this is that this man claimed that because of the pain shitting caused him, and the extra length of his bowel, he took one very massive shit only once every six weeks. He would literally block off 4-6 hours and just proceed to empty his entire colon into the toilet.

This fascinated me- it really captivated my friends and I for several weeks. We discussed the pros and cons of this constantly. Imagine if you could give up routine bowel movements for one massive endeavor once a month? "Hey Drew, you wanna watch the game at my place tomorrow? Nope, I can't. I gotta take my monthly dump, I'll be tied up all day". You could block off the day in Outlook and just set up shop with a TV, laptop and magazines in the bathroom. One of my friends went so far as to say that monthly dumps would have caused a different society. Why would we need toilets to be in restaurants and bars when they would be used only once every month?

He proposed a culture of urinals for women, similar to what female astronauts use. Another friend chimed in with the perils of not being able to foresee when your next dump would come. Imagine going to a football game, and a massive dump sneaks up on you during the 2nd quarter? By the time you would be complete, not only would the game be over, the stadium would be completely empty and all your buddies would be gone. Thus the question is for you to answer- Daily (or thrice daily) dumps or once massive poop a month? I propose a series of town hall debates to further discuss the merits of each.

I like regular, daily pooping. Otherwise, bathroom books would become obsolete and everyone would start reading novels. That would be horrible.

Finally, to end our day, a letter from a prison guard.

Dave:

After grad school and working a couple of years in minor league sports, I decided it was time to get a "real" job (one that paid me enough to live on and had actual benefits like insurance and a retirement plans). I became employed at a state prison as a Recreation Specialist. My job was essentially part-gym teacher and part-prison guard. We supervised open gym and other recreational activities for maximum-security inmates, including officiating athletic contests. We developed a slow-pitch softball league where each of the four Rec Specialists would pick a team of inmates and coach and play on the team with them. The inmates actually liked the experience and we all exchanged good-natured heckling.

Half of the inmates in this prison were serving life sentences. And "life" means life, as there is no parole for these offenders. My third basemen was serving life for murder and I often played dominoes with him. My shortstop was a compact prisoner from another state serving life for a heinous child rape/murder. As a prison employee, you have to always be cognizant of the pasts of these guys, yet treat them all as if they're equal. Anyway, my days off were Wednesday and Thursday and I happened to be getting gas at convenience store and noticed the afternoon had a picture of my shortstop under the headline "Inmate Stabbed to Death in Prison Dining Hall". Upon further reading of the article, I discovered that the killer was my third baseman, who committed the act for $10,000 from a gang in another state. He served about 18 months in solitary confinement and was given a second life sentence. But I faced a dilemma that few, if any, coaches had ever faced: I needed to replace the whole left side of my infield due to murder.

That is awesome.

You'll always make this series if your coach is a drunk who calls white people n—gers

Grant:

This clown would routinely show up to practices 20 minutes late, wasted and reeking of cheap whiskey and cigarettes. This was generally amusing for about the first 10 minutes until he would scream at everyone for being sloppy and challenging at least one of us to a fight. His "practices" usually consisted of two parts: layup drills and scrimmages. Since we had 9 guys he would routinely step in and try to relive his glory years as the 10th man. His playing style generally consisted of no-look bullet passes to no one in general that would land 10 yards out of bounds and picking up the ball like a football and trying to lower his shoulder into anyone near him. There were at least 3 occasions where he stopped the scrimmage to throw up in the water fountain when the bathroom was about 10 more feet away. There was also the practice where he ran over his son, who was none too pleased and got up and slapped his old man. They grappled and spat at each other for about 3 minutes until one of us eventually stepped in and broke it up.

The highlight of the season came in the last game of the season when his son (who had just gotten whistled for —not joking— his 6th traveling violation of the game) decided to berate the ref with a series of expletives. As this was a Catholic-run league, the ref didn't hesitate to eject him from the game, as well as the gymnasium. His dad wasn't too happy with junior, and the frustrations boiled over on the bench area when his son took a swing at pops and a repeat of the practice incident ensued. Just about everyone in the gym was horrified, including the ref, who called the game and told our coach he'd be reporting the incident to the league supervisor. Ol' coach wasn't too pleased with this and unleashed a series of stunningly offensive insults at the ref, including peppering his tirade with plenty of "n-words" (the ref wasn't black). Surprisingly, our school didn't field a team our senior year.

Prove him wrong, children. Prove him wrong!

W:

When I was in seventh grade, a large group of us walking down the hallway almost got plowed into by the school's basketball coach, who went sprinting by. Following close behind him were two or three cops, who chased him around a corner. That was the last anyone ever saw of the guy. Apparently, a female student accused the coach of having a small penis, so — like any grown man insulted by a 13-year-old — the coach decided to prove her wrong by whipping it out in front of her and the rest of the class.

This is how you motivate a group of young, insecure men

Frank:

We'd had a good week of practice, for some reason, which would happen occasionally, after which we'd often still get beaten. When that happened, our coach used to fall back on the "I can't actually make the tackle/block for you, all I can do is tell you where to be" line, in which coaches shift fault from their planning to the players' execution. Before this game he decided he'd get a jump on parsing blame and gave us the following rouser:

"These guys haven't lost yet. Can you beat them? You had a great week of practice, I'll say that. I think you CAN beat them, I just don't think you WILL."

And with that, he sent us on to the field, where we were summarily destroyed.

"You put what?" "Liquid heat." "On their what?" "In their jocks!" "That's outrageous!"

Tommy:

My high school basketball coach was a mega ahole and a huge weirdo to boot. He was such a large ahole that my grandfather (who I'm pretty sure didn't care for me at all) would refuse to acknowledge his existence when they crossed paths in our small town. This coach had a unique ability to traumatize every one in our school. He used drivers ed as a chance to get all of his personal errands done. (I once had to sit in the car for an hour in front of a weird house in the middle of nowhere while he practiced bow and arrow with some other hillbilly out back.) Everyone at the school had several good Coach Ahole stories... but the real gems came from the lucky few who got to spend time with him on the varsity basketball team.

Coach did a lot of ahole things to his basketball players. A few years before my time he got in some trouble for smacking a player with a clipboard. After his brief run in with violence he had scaled things back to mostly humiliation. One of coach's peccadilloes was a somewhat alarming attachment to jockstraps. Before the first basketball practice coach would give you your very own jockstrap with your initials emblazoned on the front. It was made very clear to us that our jocks should be worn at all times during practice and games. One of coach's favorite humiliations was to yell "JOCK CHECK" during the middle of practice. Did I mention that the varsity cheerleaders practiced in the same gym at the same time? A jock check meant lining up on the baseline... dropping your pants to your ankles and proudly displaying your humiliating man-lump for coach (and the cheerleaders) to see. At least a jock bunches the twig and berries together and makes it look a little bit more flattering than the sad truth.

Midway through my senior season, we were at an away game... in a smaller and crappier town than my small and crappy town and Coach surprised us with brand new jock straps before the game. We didn't think twice as we each opened our individually wrapped jocks, suited up, and headed out on the floor for the game. Apparently coach normally washed our new jocks before handing them out. On this day, like a parent on Christmas morning, he was too excited about seeing our rosy faces as we unwrapped our new jocks to remember to wash them. You can imagine what happened. During the first half, one by one, everyone on the team started fidgeting with their crotches. At one point I went over to a buddy of mine and declared my balls to be the new gates to the underworld.

At halftime the team raced into the locker room and immediately removed our pants. People were trying everything to soothe their ball-fires. One guy was at the sink desperately throwing water on his junk. Another guy tried rubbing chap stick on his nuts (note to the reader... do not try this). I ended up wetting toilet paper and daintily dabbing the area all through halftime. A normal human would recognize his error and allow us to remove our jocks and freeball it for the second half. Coach would have none of it. Basketball could not be played without jocks. A few lucky souls had compression shorts and put their jocks on top of them. The rest of us stuffed tp into our jocks and tried our best to limp around for the second half. I have no idea if we won or lost the game... but I do remember that my balls were a flaming ruins for a week after that. Thanks coach.

Jesus hates your cubic zirconium stud

Steve:

So I went to a Christian college, one of those fundamentalist ones where you can't teach evolution or be damned to hell. Our Dean of Students, a former wrestling coach, was a guy who was real interested in the students' well-being. To put it another way, he was a Bible-thumping dictator who had "rats" in the dorms to whisper every single transgression to him, no questions asked, something he made very public to anyone who would ask.

I got harassed by him on numerous occasions, for atrocities ranging from buying a textbook from the bookstore when I had lost mine and returning it when the class was over, skipping chapel more than the allowed amount over a semester and doing a Google image search for Carmen Electra. (Seriously. Thanks, you IT snitches.) Every time I walked into that office, he heavily implied that I risked suspension for the latest offense.

Every time you get invited to his office, expect to be lectured for at least 45 minutes with plenty of anecdotes from his coaching days thrown in. Well, on one occasion he tells me about this time he had to coach this punk kid in high school who had no respect for authority. Every time he had to coach this kid, he had a hard time getting through to him. He just did not have the proper respect, and coach expects respect. The kid even wore an earring during practice after coach told him to remove it! What a rebel.

So the kid walks in one day for practice, once again wearing the earring, and Mr. Dean of Students looks me in the eye and tells me: "So I grabbed the earring with my teeth and ripped it out of his ear."

Needless to say, my eyebrows were hovering three inches over my head. I said nothing.

This may be our finest story yet

X-Ray:

In 1985, I was in 7th grade. We had a brick shithouse of a gym teacher named Mr. X. The students all referred to him as "The Grip," though never to his face. The Grip was the type of guy that, regardless the weather, would wear a t-shirt and those rayon football coach shorts made by Bike. You know the kind: what today we'd call "John Stockton Nut-Huggers." Anyway, The Grip was the type of gym teacher who would explain what we were doing ("this is a chest pass, this is a bounce pass," etc) and would then proceed to sit down and read the paper while we simply tried not to fuck up in class. Occasionally, somebody would fuck up, and The Grip would fire a basketball, volleyball, football, floor hockey stick, whatever, at the student's head. The class would right itself, and we'd get back to the business of gym class. One particular winter, we were charged with swimming in gym class. Trouble was, we had no pool. So the class would take a 10 minute bus ride up to the high school and use their pool. It seemed like a waste of time, but who were we to argue?

Over the years, an urban legend arose of a tradition which occurred whenever students went to the high school to swim. As the legend told, it was custom to push The Grip into the pool on the last day of swim lessons, and he would (naturally, we assumed) see the humor in it, and all would be right with the world. So a bunch of us pimply faced dipshits convinced our classmate Don to push The Grip into the pool on the last day. Now Don was no ordinary 7th grader. He stood about 6'4", and a touch over 260lbs. He was a big, big boy. He was also, however, a huge pussy - incapable of hurting a fly. Don looked like Andre the Giant, but acted like Andre Agassi's hairpiece - pure fluff.

The Grip has us in the pool, swimming away, and the whole time we're goading Don to push him in. As the end of class nears, Don gets out of the pool and walks over to The Grip, who is (naturally) reading his paper. "Um, Mr. X? There's something stuck in the filter in the pool."

"Get back in the pool, Don."

"But Mr. X, there's something wrong with the filter. It's spitting debris back into the pool."

So The Grip looks up at Don with simmering annoyance, gets up, and walks to the edge of the pool. Don, putting the entirety of his weight behind him, proceeds to push The Grip into the pool, eliciting a roomful of cheers from his classmates. Don has the widest, most shit-eating grin on his face.... for about 5 seconds. The next sound we heard was the "slap" of wet newspaper upon tile flooring. Then we saw The Grip emerging from the pool like the Creature from the Black Lagoon, with fury and revenge in his eyes. The Grip stands to his full height and charges at Don. He grabs Don by the neck, throws him into the locker room door, and shoves him into the locker room. The sounds from the locker room were frightening, to say the least. The Grip proceeded to beat the hell out of Don, whipping his ass. We could hear the beatdown. When they both came out of the locker room, The Grip was wearing Don's clothes, and Don was wearing The Grip's soaking wet clothes, including the football shorts. Don was also wearing multiple full-hand slap prints, raised welts, and fresh bruises. Needless to say, we all got our asses into the locker room, changed, and got the fuck on the bus. What followed was a very quiet bus ride back to the middle school.

When we returned to school, nobody spoke of the incident. Nobody dared to speak of the incident until some of us were called down to the vice-principal's office. There, we spilled our guts, scared of retribution from The Grip, yet pissed at the fact that he basically kicked the shit out of our classmate. Even though we all told the same tale, nothing happened to The Grip. He was back in the classroom that very day, and the next, and the next. Again, this was the mid 80s and The Grip was tenured. Don's bruises eventually went away and we didn't go swimming again.

4A. Are you willing to accept the fact I will do work around the house on the weekend if you ask me to do it, or will you get pissed off at the idea of having to ask me?

This, without question, the number one catalyst for everyday arguments between me and my Mrs. Let's say you just got married and you two are living in an apartment together. Let's say the trash is full. Here's what usually transpires:

WIFE: Hey honey, would you mind taking out the garbage?

YOU: Sure thing. No problem. (You take out the garbage.)

Okay, that's what happens when you're initially married. The wife asks you to do something. You do it. Task completed, let's drink wine and go bang in the shower. Now, fast-forward five years into the same marriage. Here now is that same exchange.

WIFE (annoyed): Will you take out the trash?

YOU: Okay. (You take out the garbage and come back.) Hey, why do you sound so annoyed?

WIFE: I shouldn't have to ask you to take out the trash.

YOU: But then how would I know it's full?

WIFE: I shouldn't have to ask you to do things. You should be able to recognize for yourself that the trash is full, and then go take it out.

YOU: Why? What difference does it make? I took the trash out.

WIFE: Ugh.

YOU: Why you got such a bug up your ass?

WIFE: (legitimately mad) All I'm asking is that you help out more! Be a little more proactive.

BOOM! There it is. PROACTIVITY. "I shouldn't have to ask you." It's not enough for you, as a husband, to happily do assorted chores. No, no. No, you must take initiative with the chores, or else you're a dick. You're supposed to be a fucking psychic. This goes beyond garbage, of course. It's pretty easy to spot when the garbage is full and needs to be taken out. But what about the pantry? Is it mildly disorganized? Are your shoes taking up an unacceptable amount of room on the floor of the closet? When's the last time you bought STAMPS, asshole? All those things factor in, and more. Like a football player studying tape, you are expected to recognize situations and adjust accordingly.

I can't do this. Ever. I'm incapable of it because I am a man, and have a highly overcrowded brain. Here are the contents of my brain, the beginning and end of all my complete thoughts:

-Work
-Football
-Fucking
-When can I drink next?

That's it. That's everything in the cortex, and keeping all THAT organized is a big enough pain in the ass. I do not have time to anticipate every fucking chore or every fucking errand out there into my brain. There's no room.

But this is marriage, so of course the end result of any fight like this is, "Honey, I will do my best to take the initiative on these things." And that will satisfy your Mrs… until you forget to think of something AGAIN (which always happens) and the argument is repeated at a louder volume.

WIFE: You didn't empty the trash!

YOU: Oop. Sorry about that.

WIFE: God dammit, I shouldn't have to ask you!

YOU: I forgot.

WIFE: You need to be better about remembering these things.

Well, how on fucking Earth do I do that? I can promise to TRY and remember to do shit, but I'm not always gonna succeed. How the fuck am I suppose to just automatically become fucking Kreskin when it comes to menial jobs? I do my absolute best to remember shit, but I'll still forget crap all the time. And then I get pissed at myself for forgetting because I know it's gonna trigger a shitstorm. This annoys me, because I STILL DO THE TASK REGARDLESS. There are husbands out there who DON'T take out the trash, you know. They leave it there, and then they go fuck a club promoter. THEY DO! YOU LADIES ARE LUCKY YOU DIDN'T END UP WITH THAT PRICK! I don't do that. Not that I have the option, but still. I DO SHIT!

Anyway, my Mrs. now accepts the occasional brainfart. And I beg the rest of you ladyfolk out there to do the same. We men aren't perfect, but we're happy to pitch in whenever asked. But to remember every goddamn thing that needs to be done? Well, I'm sorry. But Kitana Baker and Lucy Pinder are oil wrestling up in my head right now, so that's just not gonna happen.

We've got a lot of shit to cover, so let's hop right in.

The Games
All games in the Jamboroo are evaluated for sheer watchability on a scale of 1 to 5 Throwgasms.

Five Throwgasms

Titans at Colts: I was glancing at SportsCenter this week (I don't know anyone anymore who actually sits down and pays attention to SportsCenter while it's on. It's ambient programming at this point, like the Today Show, or John Tesh's music) and saw a segment where Merril Hoge argued with HIMSELF on a split screen. It was called Merril vs. Merril. No lie. It was just like Stephen Colbert's Formidable Opponent segment, only without any sense of irony, and conducted by a retarded person. They even showed Merril giving himself aggravated looks if his other self said something he disagreed with. It's like they replaced Salisbury and Clayton's old testy split screen arguments by throwing up their hands and going, "You know what? Fuck it. Have Hoge do all of it."

Obviously, it makes sense to use Hoge for this segment. I've heard that Hoge has more than enough split personalities to conduct these debates on a regular basis. On certain days, Hoge has been known to turn into Lucinda, a 14-year-old girl who may be a lesbian is too afraid to explore her own feelings about it.

I sympathize with Hoge to a certain extent. He was so intent on proving Vince Young was a bust, then Young proved him wrong, then proved him right, then proved him wrong a second time. It's enough to drive any man crazy, particularly a man who has received 45,872 blows to the head in his lifetime.

Also, if the Titans beat the Colts and pull to 6-6, that would be just about the coolest thing ever. Which is why it probably won't happen. Stupid reality.

Last thing: In the above pic, that is the shirt Vince Young wore in his postgame press conference last week. Goddamn, that is one ugly shirt. Looks like a security guard at Tropicana headquarters.

Four Throwgasms

Vikings at Cardinals: This is the best Vikings team since 1998, which is terrifying. In fact, the similarities between that Vikings team that was favored to go to the Super Bowl and this one are numerous. Both only have one loss (and given the rest of the schedule, it's not unreasonable to assume these 2009 Vikings will also go 15-1). Both have aging QB's who came out of retirement and played flawlessly (Favre and Randall Cunningham). Both have home run threats at running back (Purple Jesus and Robert Smith). Both have Rookie of the Year wideouts (Percy Harvin and Randy Moss). Both have relatively soft schedules. Both have enormous young right tackles (Phil Loadholt and Korey Stringer). Both have shitty head coaches (Denny Green and Brad Childress). Both have Hall of Famers at left guard (Randall McDaniel and Steve Hutchinson). Both have a dominant pass rusher (Jared Allen and John Randle).

I'd argue this 2009 team is even better than the '98 Vikings, particularly along the defensive line, and at cornerback once Antoine Winfield is healthy again. And fucking Prince was in the box last week. Prince never showed up for the 1998 Vikings. Prince is the purple SHIT.

Again, all of this portends nothing but fucking DOOM. It's hard to believe any Vikings team, even one as talented as this outfit, will not find a way to rip out my fucking heart, stick it in a pants press, and squeeze it until it's flat, dead and useless. That's just what the Vikings do. That's who they are. And the fact that the Saints are an even BETTER team in the NFC makes that outcome even easier to envision.

There was a letter in Tuesday's post that demanded I, along with all other Vikings fans, come out and confess my love for Favre now that's he's joined the team and lit everyone up. I'll happily admit I was wrong to hope the Vikings wouldn't sign that wrinkled old cocksucker. He has, indeed, been awesome. Perfect. This is still a winning team without Billy Bob Fuckstain, but not a Super Bowl quality team. He's made an enormous difference, and I'm glad they signed him, and that he makes the receivers better, and that he gives the Vikings an effective two-minute drill, which they've never had before, blah blah blah. That's all great.

But the fact is that fans of the 31 other teams out there would like nothing more than to see Favre's leg get cleaved in two, ending his career on the spot and sending the Vikings straight in to the fucking gutter. I'm well aware of that. So if you ever see me exulting in having Favre as my favorite team's QB before they've even won a playoff game (and frankly, even if they do end up winning it all), you are more than free to slap me on the cock. I don't have to love the guy to be happy he's on my side. It's like Deion's one-year stint with the 49ers in 1995. You love what the guy does for you. Doesn't mean you have to love HIM. I still think Vikings fans who buy #4 jerseys are weird.

Still. Nice job so far, you possum rapist.

Ravens at Packers: The worst thing about Jaws and Gruden on Monday Night Football is that they are consistently one-upping each other in terms of volume. First Gruden says something loudly, then Jaws says something even louder to punctuate what Gruden said, then Gruden comes back screaming at the top of his fucking lungs. Hey assholes, you have microphones pinned to your shirt. They can pick up your voice just fine if you talk like a normal person. Shitheads.

Whenever my mom uses a cell phone, she shouts because she thinks sound has a more difficult time traveling through the air and not via wires. And she doesn't just shout. She really yells her fucking head off. Everyone has to leave the area when she's on a cell phone, otherwise you develop vertigo. Jaws and Gruden have the same effect. Please guys, for the love of God, shut the fuck up for five seconds.

Cowboys at Giants: I was watching "Intervention" the other night, and the lady they profiled was the girl who was a Hollywood extra who got hooked an painkiller called fentanyl, which the DEA claims is 100 times more powerful than morphine (I dunno how the power of a drug can be measured, but whatever). You don't take the drug intravenously. Instead, it's given to you in lollipop form. I shit you not. It's a drug 100 times more powerful than morphine, and it comes in a lollipop. That sounds fucking AWESOME. Before I die, I want a fentanyl Dum Dum. Greatest drug ever? I bet the many prescription medication addicts in our comments section now one that can top it. "It's a thousand times better then heroin, and it's in bacon form."

Three Throwgasms

Patriots at Dolphins: Ricky Williams tossed a pick out of the Wildcat formation last week (at the goal line), and there's something truly agonizing about having a fantasy player that isn't a QB throw a pick and cost you two points. Obviously, this is a cousin of the "seeing your RB fumble at the goal line" pain. It's that eight point swing, where you think you're getting six, and you end up getting fucked in the ass. I get so angry when that happens that I bite into my fist until there's visible bruising. One day, I really will eat my own hand in anger. And what a taste treat that will be. Lotta meat on these paws.

By the way, pick aside, Ricky Williams might just be this year's "injury replacement instant stud," that one player every year who was a late pick and becomes a Top 20 player because the guy in front of him got his knee shredded. I never get those players. Ever. I always get the guy who got injured to make way for the asskicker.

Also, Randy Moss' beard is awesome.

Eagles at Falcons: After Andy Reid opened the Skins game with an onside kick, everyone had the same reaction: "Well, that was retarded." Every commentator made the point that you should only do a surprise onside kick if you know you're playing a superior opponent, not an inferior one. But is that really true? Shouldn't you only try a surprise onside kick if you're BETTER than the other team, because you're more likely to survive if the attempt fails, because you're the superior outfit? Can't better teams afford to take more risks?

Nah, just kidding. Andy Reid is dumber than his kids.

Texans at Jaguars: Whatever else happens during this Tiger Woods shitstorm, I can guarantee you one thing: when the Masters rolls around, Jim Nantz will do everything in his power to whitewash the scandal. He'll go out of his way to note how tough Tiger is in dealing with all the adversity. If Elin shows up the tournament, he'll make sure to note how much she and Tiger support one another. Jim Nantz is less an announcer than he is a PR rep for the PGA. The sun shines out of the asshole of every golfer Nantz has ever met. Tiger Woods could commit fucking war crimes and Nantz wouldn't acknowledge it. Tiger could rape babies. He could be a baby rapist and Nantz would say, "Such mental toughness he has. To deal with everything he's been going through and still dig down deep to make that putt. What grit." Jim Nantz is golf's pissboy.

Oh, and a giant FUCK YOU to Tiger Woods. You want your privacy, dickhead? Then don't fuck other women and sext them 300 times. You tend to lose your right to privacy when you're that big of a fucking idiot. Don't give me that bullshit Sarah Palin "I'm a victim of the gotcha media" bullshit when you decided to step out on your lady even though you have one of the most recognizable faces on Earth.

/would never cheat on my wife
/or my saucy Latina mistress
/unless a woman were to actually proposition me

Two Throwgasms

Saints at Redskins: Of the two undefeated teams, New Orleans has the best chance of running the table because they may still be playing for home field advantage in Week 17 if the Vikings keep winning. The Saints could finish 16-0, and the Vikings could finish 15-1. That's never happened before in a single season. Ever. Holy dogshit.

Jets at Bills: "Steven Seagal: Lawman" premiered last night. And the fucker talked in a Cajun accent even though he's not from Louisiana. He affects accents. I hate people that do that. He's just like Madonna.

One Throwgasm

Bucs at Panthers: Last week on NFL GameDay Final, they showed footage of Raheem Morris on the sidelines, covering his mouth while he was calling plays, as coaches like to do. That's when Deion Sanders shouted out, "MAN, NO ONE WANTS YOUR PLAYS!" I used to hate Deion. No longer.

And look, MATT MOORE IS STARTING! Beware, you crazy gamblers out there.

Rams at Bears: FOX has always been a proud innovator of gay and unnecessary broadcast wrinkles. And this year, we've been subjected to their latest creation: the 7-word recap. Sponsored by Microsoft's Windows 7: It Almost Kinda Works Now! They do this at the end of every broadcast now, and it's so dumb, you wonder why FOX didn't come up with it themselves ages ago. Well, I have a seven-word recap for the seven-word recap, and here it is.

1. YOU
2. PEOPLE
3. CAN
4. KISS
5. MY
6. FUCKING
7. DICK

Chargers at Browns: Carson Palmer got a nasty horse collar tackle from Browns DT Shaun Rogers last week. And when the refs called it, Eric Mangini went absolutely BATSHIT. He was so angry about the call, he went back to refs at the end of the half to bitch them out. It was an odd move, given that Palmer was clearly horse collared (and shaken up on the play). Oh wait, I know what happened. Palmer CHEATED by allowing himself to be grabbed by the collar and slammed down to the ground by Shaun Rogers. IT'S A CONSPIRACY! EVERYONE'S AFTER YOU, ERIC! DON'T DRINK YOUR COFFEE WITHOUT HIRING A TASTER FIRST!

49ers at Seahawks: Oh, so NOW is when Vernon Davis decides to be the greatest fantasy tight end in the history of the universe. Only after everyone has given him up for dead, like they did DeAngelo Williams before last year. God dammit, players like that piss me off.

Lions at Bengals: I was glancing at Leitch's decade retrospective earlier (I just stared at the very small thumbnails, because I'm too lazy to click through a whole web slideshow. Web slideshows are worse than ass cancer), and I remembered back in 2001, right after 9/11 happened, the DJ's at K-ROCK in New York would play Metallica's "Don't Tread On Me" (which is one of their worst songs ever) with news bites about the attack mixed into the cut. And when the Iraq War started, they played "Wanted Dead Or Alive" with bites from Bush's ultimatum speech also mixed in. I fucking hated this. In fact, it's a perfect IQ test. If you're the type of steakhead who thought this was awesome, I hope you and your Axe body spray fall into a fucking canyon.

Broncos at Chiefs: Someone in the mailbag the other day said night pissing is best when your bathroom has a dimmer switch and you can turn it all the way down. Ever play that game with the dimmer switch, where you keep lowering it and lowering it, seeing just how dim it can get before the light actually goes out? I do that at least six times a week. THIS ROOM IS NONE MORE DIM.

Raiders at Steelers

Pregame Song That Makes Me Want To Run Through A Goddamn Brick Wall

"Crazy Train," by Ozzy Osbourne. Live off of the "Tribute" double album. AY! AY! AY! AY! AY! AY! AY! AY! There are few perfect songs in the universe. "Crazy Train" is one of them. Since Randy Rhoads died, no one else has dared strap on a polka dotted flying V guitar. That's how bad of a motherfucker Randy Rhoads was. He RETIRED that guitar. And when Angus Young dies, they'll retire the Gibson SG guitar. Only those men get to play those guitars, and that's as it should be. If you're not Angus young and you're playing a Gibson SG, you should be beaten.

Fun fact: In the 1980's, Ozzy Osbourne and Bette Midler had the exact same hairstyle.

Embarassing Video I Once Liked That Will Not Fire You Up

"Funkytown," by Pseudo Echo. Not the original song by Lipps Inc., a band I always mistakenly thought was affiliated with former Steelers wideout Louis Lipps. Please note that the lead singer of this band is Australian, but is clearly wearing a New York Yankees t-shirt. THAT'S PANDERING. Also take note of the jeans tucked into the hightops (not unlike the jeans tucked into boots look that's so hot with the ladies in 2009). And, of course, there's the keytar. Everyone makes fun of the keytar, but you can understand why it was invented. The poor keyboardist has always been treated like the kicker of the band. I bet it was a relief to them that someone invented a keyboard guitar that allowed them to be up in front with the guitarist and bassist. YOU'RE ON THE TEAM NOW. That's much better positioning if you're a keyboardist looking to score better pussy.

Open Mailbag Tuesdays
Since Tuesday's mailbag, more and more people have come out of the woodwork to tell me that they stand to wipe their asses. Again, it never occurred to me that some people stood while wiping. And it never occurred to THEM that some people sat while wiping. I find this FASCINATING. You could commission a decade-long anthropological study about this. Why do some people wipe standing while others wipe sitting? Is it because of how they were raised? Does race play a factor? So many questions. Got something you want displayed for show and tell in the Deadspin Tuesday Mailbag? Email me any question or observation you like.

Fantasy Player That Deserves To Die A Slow, Painful Death
Matt Forte. According to an aggregate of all Yahoo drafts this year, Matt Forte was the fourth highest rated player, getting drafted at an average slot of fifth overall. Here are the top ten players from that list:

-Adrian Peterson
-Michael Turner
-MJD
-Forte
-Brian Westbrook
-DeAngelo Williams
-Larry Fitzgerald
-LaDainian Tomlinson
-Drew Brees
-Steven Jackson

Of those ten, only Brian Westbrook has fewer overall fantasy points, because he's Brian goddamn Westbrook and he's injured for 78 weeks a year. Forte is 23rd among RB's in fantasy points, and he's been healthy all year long. THE FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT. Forte is the guy you have to keep in your lineup every week because you drafted him high and there's no one else to put in, and just spends all year long PUTTING IT IN YOUR ASS. You suck, Matt Forte. DIE.

Suicide Pick Of The Week
Last week's suicide pick of the Bengals was correct, making me 9-3 on the year. That puts the Bengals, Steelers, Jets, Falcons, Bears, Colts, Eagles, Vikings, Texans, Ravens, Saints and Skins off the board now. We once again pick a team for your suicide pool and something that makes you WANT to commit suicide. This week's pick? Denver, and folding children's laundry. I have no idea what to do with these miniature shirts and pants. THEY'RE A COMPLETE CATASTROPHE.

Nazi Shark's Vegas 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.

"This week, I like the Vikings giving 4 points against Arizona on the road. Hey, Santa Cruz! Way to make a local resident take down his Nazi flag! Freedom of speech, huh? I think we know who the real Nazis are. I guess this is only a free country, so long as you obey everyone's rules and keep your Nazi flags and collections of Jew ear necklaces to yourself. YOU PEOPLE MAKE ME SICK. I WILL BITE YOU."

2009 Nazi Shark Record: 6-6.

This Week's Pants Party Winner
Last week's Pants Party winner was P. Kuszynski. He did not claim his prize. This week's winner was D. "The Body" Bodamer. Come and git it, Body.

Great Moments In Poop History
Reader Nathan chimes with a poop WHOPOOPEDIT! He calls it, "The Wendy's Shit Bandit":

I went to Wendy's for lunch today and hit the men's room to take a leak prior to getting in line. The urinal was out of order so I headed for the stall. When I opened the stall door I was greeted with one of the most disturbing and amazing sights I've ever seen. The bowl was literally full to the brim with gigantic fucking turds. Logs the size of my forearm. I wondered aloud how any human could muster such massive deposits. I was repulsed and intrigued at the same time. I forgot all about pissing and got in line to order my lunch. When I got up to the counter I informed the manager on duty that the men's room was in dire need of attention due to the approximately 40lbs of shit in the bowl. That's when it got weird.

In a very tired tone, with a haunted look in her eyes, she said, "Goddamnit, he's BACK".

Apparently, about once a month, over the course of the last year or so, someone has been depositing these enormous turds in the Wendy's men's room. She told me they were close to catching the perpetrator and, get this, the guy has been bringing the supernatural logs with him in a plastic grocery bag and dumping them in the bowl. Every time another new deposit is made a soiled grocery bag has been found in the men's room. I don't know whether to be frightened or awed by such deranged behavior. Who is the Wendy's Shit Bandit? Are the turds human or animal? We may never know, but he has my respect.

I find this to be an extraordinary crime. The poopetrator here is clearly a disgruntled former employee or a customer who felt he was treated shabbily. That can be the only explanation. If it's just a random act of poopiness… MY GOD. That would be disturbing and brilliant all at once.

People, between this story and the Last Pickle in the Jar, we may be on the verge of a poop prank revolution. College students of the world, heed my words: that turd you're leaving the bowl is not to be flushed. It is a comedic resource with millions of different uses. Don't waste your poop by disposing of it. Place it in a friend's shoe. Drop it in a fish tank. USE YOUR IMAGINATION. In your hands, poop can be anything.

Fire This Asshole!
Is there anything more exciting than a coach losing his job? All year long, we'll keep track of which coaches will almost certainly get fired at year's end or sooner. And now, your updated chopping block:

Tom Cable*
Jim Zorn
Eric Mangini
Jim Mora
Andy Reid
John Fox*
Jack Del Rio
Tom Coughlin
Gary Kubiak*
Dick Jauron – FIRED!
Lovie Smith*

(* - midseason firing potential)

Ah, now that's more like it. A robust ten coaches on the firing line. Tremendous. I think Lovie is the next to go. He won't even notice that they've fired him until a week later. "Wait, what? I was fired! NO WAIT! I DISPUTE THAT!"

Gametime Snack Of The Week

Summer sausage! Oh, summer sausage. So firm. So long. I could take you all in. I don't see why you should only be designated as a seasonal food item. You work perfectly as a winter sausage, spring sausage, and autumnal sausage as well. I could eat summer sausage until I had nitrates coming out of my pores… AND I HAVE.

I love sausage. I could eat it at every meal for the rest of my life and have no complaints. Regular meat is great. Ah, but what if you ground up the grossest cuts of the meat, mixed in some fennel seed, and then stuffed it all in a section of a sheep's digestive tract? MAGIC. Every meat tastes better in sausage form, and I'm at a loss as to why. Is it the trace amount of feces? I think it's the trace amount of feces.

Gametime Cheap Cider Of The Week
White Lightning! Our night editor Barry Petchesky writes:

I've got to nominate White Lightning, a highlight of my London study abroad program a few years back. It's hard cider, sold in supermarkets in 3-liter bottles, for CHEAPER than an equivalent amount of soda. We only found out after we left England that it's the hobos' drink of choice.

Of course it is. Look at that shit. It really does look like stale urine. I also like the 50% MORE FREE on the label. "Hey, it only costs us three cents a barrel to make this in our bathtub. Here's 50% more for free. Fuck it." I love the label. Oh, I'll ride that lightning. Bonus points for having the same name as a cut from "Adrenalize". And, as luck would have it, the song "White Lightning" was dedicated to deceased Def Leppard guitarist Steve Clark, who died from alcoholism. It's romantic, when you think about it.

I also like that the bottle and glass are placed on the floor in this shot. This is a drink meant to be consumed on floors or while lying on concrete. You don't drink this stuff while sitting in a chair. It just isn't done. Way too pretentious.

Robert Evans' MVP Watch!
Time to start thinking about who the leaders are for the NFL's MVP award. So every week, legendary Hollywood producer Robert Evans will join us to give us his assessment. Take it away, Mr. Evans.

"Baby, my favorite for the NFL's MVP this year is Drew Brees of the Saints! Prolific? You bet! Great guy? ONLY THE BEST. I don't why know why everyone is jumping all over my good friend Tiger Woods for cheating on his wife. WE'RE ALL TIGERS, BABY. You gotta let us prowl! I remember when I married Ali McGraw, and she asked me, ‘Evans, do you promise to always be faithful to me?' And I said, "McGraw, not a chance in hell. I'll love you forever, sweetheart. Gorgeous? You bet! Feisty? AS ALL HELL. But I'm a man, McGraw. Evans loves to love women, and they love to love him! No, why would I throw all that away just because I'm married to you? Baby, I promise you only one thing: You'll always be the one I nail at the end of every business day!' And she was okay with it! ALI GOT IT. And that's why we were such a great couple. Until she fucked Steve McQueen. What kind of horrible woman cheats on her man? That's not right, baby!"

Sunday Afternoon Movie Of The Week For Browns Fans

Up In The Air. I haven't seen this yet, but I do know that George Clooney plays a guy whose job consists solely of laying people off. I've been laid off four times in my life, including in June, when my ad agency had to lay me off due to the economy (the poop stories, oddly enough, they didn't mind). Every time I've been laid off, I've always felt terrible for the person who had to pull the trigger. You can see in their eyes how much it bothers them. They spend a lot of time prefacing the firing because it's so hard to get the actual words, "you're employment has been terminated" out. I'd rather eat a jar of mayo than lay someone off.

Gratuitous Simpsons Quote
"Don't have a stereotypical view of me just because I'm your mother. I know: how about we play the basketball? I'm no Harvey Globetrotter, but…"

Halftime Masturbation Kit
-For the guys: Favorite of boners around the world Keeley Hazell. (NSFWSC) Tastefully done, but definitely ALL NUDE. That's important. Very important. To be tasteful.
-For the gals: Dreamy Doug Pickett. We could be twins!

Enjoy the games, everyone.

Bob:

I am trying to update my Netflix queue but their Top 100 is retarded, it still has Crash as the #1 movie (it came out in 2006). Any suggestions for movies to add or a website to use that has movies that are a little more recent?

I agree wholeheartedly. For a service that is otherwise a masterpiece of convenience, browsing for new flicks on the Netflix homepage is a total fucking disaster. I think they do this on purpose, so that demand for one movie doesn't jam up their stock. It's fucking bullshit. Just now, I went to the BROWSE NEW RELEASES section of the site. Here's are the first ten titles they recommended:

-GI Joe
-The Proposal
-Paper Heart
-Taken
-Night at the Museum 2
-Hotel for Dogs
-17 Again
-Away We Go
-The Goods
-How To Be

GO. FUCK. YOURSELF. Holy shit, Netflix. You recommend more shitty movies than Pete fucking Hammond. Here are a handful of major new releases that Netflix couldn't bother to add to their fucking page:

-Star Trek
-Bruno
-Up
-Angels & Demons

But that's just shit that's out already. If you're like me, you want to plan your queue much further in advance by adding movies that may be coming out within the next week or two, such as these four movies:

-Public Enemies (12/8)
-Harry Potter 6 (12/8)
-Julie & Julia (12/8)
-The Hangover (12/15)

Good luck finding those upcoming releases anywhere when you browse on Netflix. You have to search around the rest of the Internet for shit like that, googling "DVD chart" and shit. Assholes. I hate Blockbuster Video with the fury of a thousand death row prisoners, but at least there was that list up behind the counter that told you HEY. HERE IS SOME SHIT COMING DOWN THE PIKE YOU PROBABLY WANT TO RENT. How fucking hard is it to put together a similar list on the Netflix site? Instead, like Bob said, we're stuck with the Netflix Top 100, which is fucking retarded. The Bucket List is #3 on that chart. Number three? DIE. I hope the Netflix webmaster is forced to sit through a thousand viewings of Pumpkinhead.

Andrew:

I've got two teenage kids, so I've been through the art collecting process. Here's some great advice I can give on the subject:

Every time one of the rugrats comes home with a new masterpiece, take a minute and snap a digital picture of that fucker (or scan it if you are really anal). Then put it in a folder on your computer called "Junior's Artwork." Make sure the wife knows you're keeping all those pictures. She'll think you're all sensitive and shit. Make that folder into a screensaver for double bonus points. When she catches you throwing out the kid's latest Guernica, you can remind her you've got digital copies of everything. Set aside a couple of highlights from each year of the kid's life and gleefully trash all the other crap.

You're welcome.

THANK YOU!

Colombian Boy:

If you were gay, you'd be a highly prized "bear". Has anyone else brought this up to you and what do you think of it?

Not so fast. According to Urban Dictionary, a bear is, "A term used by gay men to describe a husky, large man with a lot of body hair." I'm large and husky, but I don't have the swarthy body hair of say, a Greek, an Italian or a Jew. I bet Daulerio's got an ass that looks like an Armenian carpet workshop.

I'm not gay, but I've always thought that if I were gay, I'd be really good at it. Clearly, I know how to work a penis. And I'm not afraid to get collateral ass sweat on my face. I'd be a wizard at the Manhole. Alas, tough shit for you, gays! You could have had an ace shaftworker among your ranks, but God had another plan in mind for me.

While we're on the gay subject, I've always thought the whole thing about tops and bottoms was a myth. If you're a gay couple, shouldn't you share pitching duties? It seems unfair to me that one guy always gets the ass and one always has to take it. I think there's more reciprocation going on than is advertised.

/wildly generalizing

Kyle:

Don't you hate it when your wife or girlfriend uses your razor? The worst part is, she actually throws out a barely used blade and replaces it with a brand new one! These razors are not cheap! Is there anything more infuriating than this?

My old lady doesn't do that, but that would, indeed, piss me off. I try and make each blade cartridge last at least a year. I'll use the thing until there are rust stains on my cheeks. It's insane how much a pack of Mach 3 blades costs. Sometimes, they put it behind the counter with all the Nicorette gum and Claritin. It's crazy. It's its own commodities market.

My bigger problem with females and razors is that my wife likes, without warning, to shave the back of my neck with her lady razor. DRY. Hey lady, this is not a fucking rock you're shaving. My skin is very sensitive, like a fresh born puppy's!

Joe:

Ever tried standing up to wipe? I know some guys that will do that which completely blows my mind. Doesn't standing up close your ass and smear shit all over the inside of your cheeks?

I had four people write in this week asking about wiping while standing up, which never occurred to me to do. So I went and tried it out just now. Simulated wipe only. Not live combat. I went to the bathroom, dropped my drawers, grabbed a wad of paper, and jammed it up my ass. And the ass closing is not quite the problem Joe thinks it may be (as I thought as well). The twisting isn't as awkward when you stand, which is nice. Less torsion.

HOWEVER, standing up to wipe means your ass is now in front of the bowl rim, which is no good for me. I'm a terrible dribbler, so piss would go all over the place if I did that. Also, sometimes you'll wipe your ass and there's a turtle chunk nestled in there that you didn't realize had yet to drop. Thus, brushing it with the toilet paper dislodges it and it falls into the bowl. If that happened while standing up… DOODIE!

So, in conclusion: Not a bad wipe, but not practical for shitters like me, who have to do lots of paperwork.

Jake:

So I was driving back from a sales call today and there is a Hummer in front of me, and the license plate of the car was HUMVE. Really?!?!?! How much of a douche do you have to be to actually think that a plate like that is cool? I couldn't focus on work the rest of today. All I could think about was how much of a douchebag that owner of that car must be. Then later in the day I see a Range Rover with the plate MiROV3R. Not only is that awful, but the person had to misspell it cause the correct spelling was already taken! These ppl need to be dragged into the streets and shot. That is all.

Yeah, that's pretty bad. Overall, it's hard to get any personalized license plate and not look like an asshole. The only good one I ever heard was one mentioned on ESPN Radio once. Bob Ley has a personalized license plate that reads DNP-CD. Well played, sir.

Jdub

Why in the HELL would Leitch skip over the poop story every week? Is he gay?

Oh, yeah. Also: Not a bear.

Bryan:

I don't know about you, but I feel very strongly about pissing in the dark in the middle of the night. Why should I be woken up anymore than I already am by blinding myself with fluorescent light when I've been pissing successfully for 25+ years?

I agree. I never turn on the light to piss at night. You turn on that light, and then all your rods and cones immediately adjust. It's like being punched in the face. I don't like a nightlight in the bathroom either, because even that wakes me up a little more than I really want. After a while you learn to masterfully navigate your own bathroom in the dark. But I also piss in the dark anywhere else I go: hotel rooms and the like. And that's a really fun game to play with yourself: Strange Toilet Night Pissing. Am I aiming right? Am I aiming right? I think I am. Then you let fly, and you know immediately by the sound of the piss if you hit the center of the bowl or not. You either get that loud splash (BOOSH!), or you nail the floor and it goes spraying all over your foot. Sometimes, I think I've hit the toilet beach and kept on pissing, only to learn in the morning that I was washing the floor the whole time.

Brett:

The biggest piece of shit is in the world is the late game local news halftime update. Most of the games are over and they could show highlights from those games, but instead we get three minutes of highlights followed commercials followed by 4 minutes of local news. If I wanted to hear about pedophiles, weather reports, and school shootings, I'd watch the fucking local news and not football.

Most of the time, they don't even tell you the weather. They just tease it, in hopes you'll stick around for the 11PM news. Like the fucking temperature for tomorrow morning is some precious resource they couldn't possibly divulge to you at this hour. Let me NOT check weather.com and wait for you to reveal it to me! Assholes.

I've also been known to severely misjudge the length of halftime. When the half hits, I get up and go start doing shit, like maybe cooking or checking email. I always think I have all the time in the world, then I go back to the TV and there's 11 minutes left in the third quarter. SHIT! What the fuck? I swear I was only gone for ten minutes!

Big Boobs Magee:

I am a newlywed (3 months and counting) and other than cooking, cleaning and good ol' fucking/sucking... I was wondering if you had any substantive advice from the husband's perspective on how to make a marriage last. I know it's a 50/50 effort, but I'm researching my 50 and I'd like to get a general male perspective on things.

Specifically, do you have any "typical wife" pitfalls to avoid? What is the one (non-sex related) thing your wife does that you love the most?

When I fall asleep in a chair or on the sofa, or on top of a bed (sometimes I fall asleep on top of the bed without bothering to get under the covers), she'll come cover me with a blanket. Best feeling in the world when someone covers you with a blanket as you're dozing off. Everything is all right when your lady does that for you.

Oh, and don't treat him like a child or pet.

Another JJ:

Has anyone ever told you that you look like Matthew Stafford? But, you know, a lot fatter and uglier?

And poorer. Don't forget poorer.

Nate Black:

How many bottles of shit does a woman need to have in the shower? I swear my girlfriend buys new soap/facewash/shampoo/conditioner every time we are out somewhere, but heaven fucking forbid she remove the bottles she currently has in the shower before adding the new ones. It's like a battlefield full of mines every time I step in there, I barely have room to bath with all the shit everywhere….and don't give me the shower hanger option…because that thing is at max capacity. If you could take the over/under on if I was going to knock one of those bottles off while showering….bet the over EVERY TIME! And do I pick it up? FUCK NO! Sometimes I'll even use my heavy flow of urine to drive it towards the drain.

I went up now and checked, and my Mrs. has eleven bottles of shit in the shower. And women leave them all over the place: in the caddy, on the soapdish, on the floor, on top of the shower door. I can't take a step without getting a bottle of Pantene falling on my foot.
Yet, somehow, it's always MY bottles that somehow get in the way. Like it's okay to have eleven medium-sized bottle of crap, but my economy-sized Head and Shoulders is some kind of massive imposition.

Women also dominate the medicine cabinet with at least an 80/20 split. Annoying. Men and women really need their own bathrooms. Sometimes, I'll be taking a shit, and my wife will just waltz on in and start flossing or something. And I'm like, "Hey, do you fucking mind? Trying to squeeze one out here." That's my shitting time. That's my time for ME.

Kurt:

As someone with years of jerking experience, have you ever been ashamed of your visual aid because it's pathetic (e.g., lingerie section of Sears catalog) or pervy (e.g., picture of sister in a bikini with a thumb held over the face)?

Not really. There was one time when I was caught by my college roommate's girlfriend while jacking it to The Price Is Right. That kind of sucked. Otherwise, I have no shame about what I choose to jerk to: old women, animated women, dogs, Josh Homme, whatever.

My big thing when I was a kid used to be staying up to watch the talk shows, and seeing if the female guest was wearing a skirt or not. If she wore a pantsuit, I cursed her to her grave. But if she wore a tight skirt, and sat down and crossed her legs, and I saw that little groove of skin running up the side of her outer thigh… HERE COMES MONGO!

FriendsOfScottSisson:

I'm a DJ with a rock station.

Other than the "Drink more scotch and smoke more cigars to sound more like Pat Summerall", any advice for a rookie play by play guy? We're starting next week with basketball. Thanks.

The first thing you need to know is how to do the call letters properly. Say it with me: WNnnnnnnnBC!

Alex:

Are you by chance the illegitimate love child of the guy who is the "VP of _____" in the Sony PS3 commercials?

Don't you mean a fatter and uglier version of him?

Kristofferson Kriskristofferson

Why do people say SOUTH Florida on the one hand, yet SOUTHERN California on the other? What is wrong with Southern Florida and South California? I could go on (Western Kentucky, West Texas, etc.), but you get the idea.

I have no clue. I never even considered that before. That's the best goddamn HIGHdea I ever heard. And don't get me started on Westerly Montana.

Jonathan:

I just moved from New York to Hong Kong and Asian girls are incredibly hot. That's all.

And, unlike in New York, they haven't all been swooped up by the black and Jewish guys yet!

Chris:

You have a kid. So do I. Ever have your kid layout one of those silent but smelly farts that makes you think they threw down in their diaper? It smells so bad that you don't even check. So you take them back to change them, expecting all kinds of chaos, and there is nothing there? That might be the best feeling in the world. Its even better than scoring the last ice cream sandwich from the freezer. Pure bliss.

Even better? My wife and pretty much take turns with the dirty diapers. When my kid lays out one of the farts sans poop and I get that changing table joy, I still play it up. Loudly. I call for my wife to come witness the devastation that my daughter hath wrought. Of course, being a woman, she isn't interested in verifying my daughter's debauchery. She takes it at face value. Now, not only am I spared a poop filled experience, but my wife gets two in a row, (Because, believe me, once a kid farts that bad, a terrible, loose doodie is brewing and an hour or so away. Those farts are like baby thunder. Warning a man that the shitstorm is coming.), and she doesn't even know it. And women say men are stupid.

Oh, Chris one evil bastard. I have that happen all the time, but I'm too stupid to lie about it. I just cry out HEY, THERE'S NO SHIT HERE! WHAT'S THE FUCKING DEAL, YOU LITTLE BASTARD? I CAME UPSTAIRS FOR NUTHIN'!

Jhonka:

I read that you worked at an agency in a prior work-life, I used to work at an agency too and wanted to ask you one question. Why do ad agencies attract modestly attractive to highly attractive women/girls like flies at a picnic?

Because advertising and publishing are two fields that are happy to hire people right out of college, so the average woman working there is younger and, therefore, better looking. And it's not as unfriendly an industry to women as finance is, nor does it have hours that are terribly demanding (unless you get stuck on a shitty account). Also, the pay blows, and women in Manhattan can more easily afford to have a bad-paying job than the men living there can. Plus, if you're an agency looking to attract clients, it doesn't hurt to have row after row of attractive women lining your offices.

A long time ago, back when I was working in NYC, I once snuck out of work to go interview at a different ad agency for a copywriter job. I walked in and met my potential art director partner, who was this guy from the South who wouldn't stop talking about pussy. The whole time. Just everything he said was, "God damn, some of the pussy in here!" He had a beer poster with a hot chick on his cubicle wall, and he pointed at it and was like, "God, I bang her so hard." So in walks a more senior art director to say hi to me. And stupid me, I figured raging sexism was kind of the atmosphere at this place. So, attempting to fit in, I had this exchange with the guy:

Senior AD: So Drew, what brings you here?

Me: Well, I got tired of ogling all the boobs at my old agency. Figured I could use a new batch! Am I right? Huh? Huh?

Senior AD (recoils in horror): Yeah. That's kinda creepy, man. (leaves)

They never called me back.

Seaward:

I have a buddy who's getting married in July, and his fiancee has definitely got around our relatively small group of friends (seven guys) before they started dating. IE, in the two weeks prior to their getting together, she blew me and got on another guy in our group before eventually landing on her husband-to-be. My question is this: is it EVER appropriate to joke about this with the guy?

Uh, no.

Andy:

As a father, what is your stance on putting together Christmas toys?

I personally love when I have to put shit together for them. Gives me something visible to do rather than play with the kids ("sorry kid, clearly I'm PUTTING YOUR SHIT TOGETHER"), and the feeling of satisfaction once it is together is sublime. I AM MAN.

I agree with the sense of satisfaction you get from constructing something. But that conflicts with my intense enjoyment of not doing things. Plus, I always fuck up one step in the process and have to disassemble the thing all over again. Or there's something in the diagram that's completely vague to me and I have to spend eight years trying to figure out just what the fuck it is they're telling me to do. FUCK YOU, SWEDES.

Josh:

Do you ever jerk it to cinemax movies? Y'know for old times sake.

If I had Cinemax, I would. One thing that always bothered me about Cinemax is… ever turn it on late on a Friday night, and there's an ACTUAL movie on? God, that pisses me off. I know they like to play real movies from time to time to give off the illusion that they aren't a porn channel, but god dammit. Just show softcore after 11PM at all times every night. Don't make this a game of roulette. AND NO, I DON'T HAVE DVR, SO GET FUCKED IF YOU HAVE IT.

Also, apart from their porn series (Best Sex Ever, etc.), every softcore movie on Cinemax now seems to star Mary Carey. I need more variety than ol' Flabbytits.

Evan:

I went through my entire work day yesterday knowing that, that night was taco night at my house. Exciting right?

Damn straight. I love taco night.

I ate just the right amount of lunch to achieve optimum stomach size and I was famished by the time I got home. I bit into my first taco and I knew instantly that something was wrong. A little background here...my wife for the last year or so has gone full vegetarian which I think is retarded but whatever, it doesn't affect me right? Wrong. I started pressing her and I come to find out that my taco isn't comprised of dead animals but of some sort of soy/vegetable concoction. Even worse is that I discover that this isn't the first time she has pulled the goalie on me.

Pretty sure that's the wrong metaphor there.

I voiced my dissatisfaction and went as far as to leave and go get a flesh burger just to teach her a lesson. My question is this: Is there anything else I can do?

Yes. Cook it yourself. Cooking tacos is fun, and you have control over all the ingredients. Learning to cook means never leaving something as crucial as Taco Night to chance. Pass the Old El Paso…

Chris:

Just got an iPhone, and have discovered Google Reader. Why is this important? Because there are sites like somedayafternoon.tumblr.com (NSFW) that have RSS feeds and deliver new porn to my phone on a continuous basis. Don't ever have to worry about the IT department or those stupid HR rules.

We are truly living in a gilded age.

And that's one to grow on. Last one:

Eric:

I don't care that you hated Favre for 16 years. He's your quarterback. He's changed that team. He's the leader of that team. He's more buddy-buddy with Percy Harvin than he was to any Packer not named Chewy or Bag-o-donuts. And he's been AWESOME. You have the best shot at a title since 99 and it's all because this team is now Purple Judas's Team, not Purple Jesus'. So give him his due. Let's hear that apology. Give me SOMETHING! I have to spend every fucking day with Packers fans who suddenly despise their "Hero." The least you can do is give me some of that positive emotion I miss so much when he was MINE! I don't want to hear Joe Buck and Troy Aikman APOLOGIZING on-air for blowing Favre – but I do want to hear an actual Vikings fan admit he is LOVING the Favre experience and describe why…

We'll deal with this in the Jamboroo. See you Thursday.

Before I get to this week's batch of stories, how about that Mark Mangino? I saw snippets from his press conference after Kansas lost their final game of the season, and this was the quote he gave with regards to the accusations of fat assholery tossed his way:

"I don't have anything to say to any decision-makers or anything," Mangino said. "A friend of mine told me something one time I think is a very good way to go about life. That is: I'd rather die on my feet than live on my knees."

That's a total asshole quote. Like Mark Mangino even HAS knees. Okay, onto your stories.

Pfft, you only get to slap a player bloody if he's also your kid

Scott:

When I was 11, I played my first year of organized basketball. Our coach was pretty cool. However one of the opposing coaches qualifies for this list.

We had to play every team in our league twice. The first time we played this one team we sat and stared at their 'top' player. This guy was big. We had to look up to him. Our coach had to look up to him. The opposing coach had to look up to him. We figured this game for a loss right away. However, as many tall men have found out, being tall does not automatically qualify you as a basketball prodigy. The big guy was clumsy as all get out. My guess is he went to bed around 5'3" and woke up the next day at 6'1" and was still trying to figure out what happened.

The opposing coach had no sympathy for his player's recent growth spurt. He demanded the guy dribble the ball down the court even though any of us could steal it from him. If the kid lost the ball the coach would yell out that he was 'worthless', 'fucking worthless', 'fucking worthless bag of shit' and so on. Our coach called a timeout and told us not to guard the guy coming up the court or steal the ball once he got there.

Now instead of calling the big guy useless, his coach is threatening to hurt him; "I will kick your ass if you do that again!", "Trust me, what I will do will hurt your ass much more than it will hurt my foot". My coach calls another timeout and calls the ref over. He asks the ref if there is anything he can do. The ref says 'Well, I can give him a technical the next time.'

More abuse ensued and a technical is called. Now the opposing coach is really upset... not at the ref though. At the big guy who made the mistake that caused him to yell and get a technical. He slaps the kid. Not once... not twice... he slaps the kid to the floor. Blood was coming out the kids nose, cuts around his eyes; our whole team was shocked. My coach steps in and forces the guy away from the player. The ref tosses the coach from the game.

So the coach yells at the big guy, "I am leaving your worthless ass here! Your mom can just search for you" collects the rest of his team and leaves.

It's not over.

The ref tells our coach that we won by forfeit so our coach arranges for us to play an intra-squad scrimmage and invites the big guy in to play with us. He was so happy he was crying. Our coach offered to give him a ride home after the game too. A few minutes go by and it is clear that the big guy had never been taught thing one about basketball. What he did know he picked up from watching people at other games. He improved pretty quickly. And then the police showed up.

The A-hole coach had called the police and said our coach had abused the player. The police came to arrest our coach, the ref, the kids, anyone in the vicinity really. Only after multiple witnesses gave the same story did they leave. I have no idea if they went back after the A-Hole coach.

Wait, what?

Brett:

I'll be brief. When I was 13 and went to summer basketball camp, they made us sit along the side of the court and watch Ryan Leaf show us he could dunk.

50 HOT BULLETS COMIN' AT YA!

John:

Everyone in our mid-1970's junior-high PE class knew it was coming, as it had every year before. We just didn't know when.

On cold rainy days when we couldn't be outside, Mr. X would hold court in a classroom, checking our heads for lice with 2 pencils, ranting about how ‘sneakers' are bad for your feet, preaching that it's unhealthy to bathe in the evening instead of the morning. He was an intimidating guy, everyone was scared shitless of him, especially the less-than-athletic. There was a frail guy in our class who basically had a lifetime exemption from strenuous PE because of a rheumatic heart, but this teacher still made him dress out every class and stand on the sidelines and watch.

Anyway, one day, right in the middle of a lecture, Mr. X suddenly pulls a starter's pistol out of his desk drawer, points it at the class and starts blasting away. Kids are crying, running for the doors, shitting their pants, teacher cracking up in that creepy, madman mass murderer kind of way. I think he later justified it as teaching ‘readiness', and the principal never shut his act down, as far as I know, until he retired.

Spud, as in Gourmet?

Dave:

Our small town high school was too small for a football team, and somehow over the years volleyball had become sport we played in fall before hockey started (Yes I'm a dude, and yes I'm from Canada). Our coach was insane, often getting ejected from games and occasionally getting physical with players that were not listening. He once pushed me from behind, face first into a cinderblock wall of our school hallways as discipline for ‘goofing around'. I remember him coaching an opposing baseball team in a tournament before he transferred to my school, and after the pitcher gave up a home run to a guy on our team, he visited the mound and yelled obscenities at his pitcher, took of his cap and hit the player repeatedly with the cap until the pitcher started crying and ran to the dugout. We were 13. Needless to say this coach was despised, and a legendary asshole in our community, but thankfully this is what a lot of us remember him most for.

We often had volleyball matches right after school that he coached where he would have to look after his two young children while coaching, daughter about 6-7, son about 4-5, the son we all called Spud.

Now Spud still had a bit of a pants pissing problem, and I don't blame him, I'm sure he took some abuse at home. It happened that once and while during practice that someone would notice that Spud had pissed his pants, alert ahole coach, then coach would yell at him for awhile but never had a change of pants for the kid, even though this happened a few times. One league match we were playing that Spud around for, we were not beating a team as badly as coach thought we should and he was irate, already getting a warning from the Ref for obscenities delivered.

Then Spud starts crying and we look over behind the bench, and there crying. Coach grabs him and picks him up, and immediately we all realize from the smell the kid shit himself. This had not happened before in front of us before. Coach grabs the kid and an extra pair of gym shorts and hauls the kid to the bathroom. I was on the bench at the time, and as soon as he leaves, I immediately alert the ref that we are calling for substitutions and over the course of the next 10 min we sub our whole bench into the game. When coach returned he was not happy. He called timeout and immediately started yelling and screaming at us ‘goofing around', and he's sweating profusely, he wipes his forehead with the back of his hand and leaves a big brown streak across his head. "Coach I think you got shit on your face" "WHAT!?! WHAT ARE YOU FUCKING TALKING ABOUT!?!? OH GOD DAMNIT FUCK SPUD!!!!"

Coach is all in a lather!

Gavin:

Back in the good old days (7th grade circa 1978), after gym class, all boys had to shower. Coach X would NOT allow showers to be skipped. If you played, you showered. One day two kids (mercifully, I was neither of them) tried to skip out without a shower and were caught by the coach. So, the next day all of us were allowed to skip our shower except those two. Those guys not only had to shower in front of the whole class, but they HAD TO WASH EACH OTHER!!! I can still recall coach X telling one of them, "Yeah, that's it. Now wash his chest."

This is the same coach who hit on my mother, in front of me, and also made us run until one kid (me, this time) hyperventilated and THEN thought to ask me if I had any history of asthma.

God, the Seventies were AWESOME

Anon:

During the early to mid-seventies (when I was 10-12), my parents would sign me and my older brothers up for two weeks of all-boys, day camp during the summer (I suppose so they could lounge about in some semblance of peace).

During the two weeks, we would take a bus ride to and fro, to a local YMCA sponsored camp (Camp Alexander, in MA) at a pond/lake here in the Northeast. It was generally fun and filled with the normal camp goings-on: swimming, archery, tetherball, etc.

However, on several occasions, when it was pouring rain that day – the group I was in, (30-40 10-12 year olds), would board a bus and head back to the city to the sponsoring YMCA (in Lowell, Ma), for a group swim. Here is where it gets screwy – when we arrived at the YMCA (which had a huge indoor pool), we were told that we could have a ‘free swim' for about an hour – but, that we all had to swim naked – yes naked. The reason given to us at the time was that the style swimming trunks back then were mostly cut-off jeans – and the fraying ends of the cut-offs could harm the filtration system – ergo, we must all swim naked.

Oddly enough, no one questioned this and we all happily swam naked – all the while, our camp's director stood by (as I got older I figured out what his motivation was, of course) enjoying the whole scene…Unlike the Catholic Church at the time – I don't believe anyone was harmed or molested or anything – but still, creeeepy.

As I got older, I looked back on this and realized – holy shit, this was fucked up!

Although my memory is hazy-er – I know this free swim took place. Perhaps the I-Team could back me up on this, and corroborate the insanity that was Camp Alexander, in the 70's.

I have but one goal for this Thanksgiving, and that is to spend the day saying as few words as humanly possible. Talking is the enemy of a good Thanksgiving. With so many goddamn relatives around, anything you say is a potential hydrogen bomb of familial conflict.

YOU: Hey, everyone! I brought a pie!

YOUR SISTER: Well, I brought one, too. I thought it was my turn to bring pie this year.

YOU: What difference does it make?

YOUR SISTER: It means you weren't LISTENING to me. You just go and do whatever you want.

YOU: Yeah, well fuck you, you runny cunt.

YOUR SISTER: NO, FUCK YOU! MOM SAYS YOU MARRIED A FUCKING BEAST!

YOU: (parries at sister with carving knife)

You see how things can devolve so quickly in such an emotionally charged environment. I'm going to a house that contains fourteen relatives this evening, and that's not even that big of a Thanksgiving. My job will be to lurk in the background, like a drifting molester, happy to blend in with the wallpaper, a source of conflict for NO MAN, WOMAN, OR CHILD. I promise to make this Thanksgiving a masterpiece of antisocializing. I have the following weapons at my disposal:

THE NFL
The house I'm going to has no television in the family area, where everyone sits before and after dinner. To watch TV, you have to go into the basement, where no one else is. FUCKING SWEET. I'll walk in, say a few pleasantries, kiss a few cheeks, throw a couple babies in the air. Then I'll grab an open bag of chips and run downstairs. An hour later, someone will be like, "Hey, where the fuck is Drew?" I'll tell you where. IN HEAVEN, THAT'S WHERE. There's nothing better than having a game to sneak off to during any family encounter. It always takes people a million years to notice. You can smuggle all manner of food down there, even an entire dinner plate. Also, you get to have that fun exchange where your old lady comes down and begs you to come up and talk to people. And you're like, "Okay, I'll be up in five minutes." And they you stay downstairs for another hour. MAGIC.

THE BATHROOM
Ah, the bathroom. Sweet, sweet sanctuary. Fact: I have been known, during family events, to go to the bathroom even when I don't have shit, piss, or masturbate. I just go there to hang out. It's like landing on home plate. No one can hand you a baby to feed, or a dish to wash. You are bulletproof once inside the bathroom. Then you go back out to the chaos outside and people will give you that look, that look that lets you know THEY know you were just overstaying your turn in the shitter. Then someone else runs to the john for a moment of solace.

SMOKING
I'm onto you, smokers. I get it, now. I see why it's worth risking the cancer, and the impotence, and the rotten teeth, and the clothes you have to Febreze 70 times a day. Because taking a smoke break outside is like a bonus trip to the shitter. No one's gonna bother you while you're outside smoking a cigarette in the freezing drizzle. And no lady is gonna come hand you a kid while you're emitting lethal secondhand smoke. It's an ingenious plan, smokers. It really is. YOU RESPONSIBILITY-DODGING SHITBAGS.

ALCOHOL
I'm sorry. I'd talk to you people, or help mom with plating dessert. But I'm just too fucking LOADED, you see.

BACK PAIN
My sciatica flared up last week, and is only now subsiding. (Quick note: Sciatica is caused by a ruptured disk in your back pressing against a nerve and causing shooting pain down your leg. You do not want it.) Anyway, I went to the doctor and got a prescription for Vicodin (WHEE!), muscle relaxants (SCORE!), steroids (DREW STRONG!), and physical therapy (whatever). I have to take all these meds, or else I'm in unrelenting agony all day long. So I'd like to talk to my relatives, exceppppttt I seem2beslurrrrrrinmywerddddss lemme jus lay downnn and (drools all over pants).

So there you have it, people. Those are the tools you have at your disposal to avoid actual contact with your loved ones this year. Use them at will. You could even fake a stomachache after dessert. That works, too.

Also, this week's Jamboroo is dedicated to my wife's cousin, who nearly died this spring in an accident. He made it through, and I'll be seeing him tonight. I'm thankful you're still around, my man. Drinks on me.

NOW DAN V, MAKE WITH THE SPECIAL THANKSGIVING THROWGASMS.

The Games
All games in the Jamboroo are evaluated for sheer watchability on a scale of 1 to 5 Throwgasms.

Five Throwgasms

Steelers at Ravens: I mentioned earlier that I was going to a house with 14 relatives tonight. NONE of these people like football. At all. In fact, no one in my wife's family or my own family likes football besides me. I'm the only football fan among us, and that bothers me to no end. I'm the one asshole sneaking away to watch the game. I'm the selfish one. Goddamn pinkos, the lot of them. The only exception to this is my father-in-law, who is an anomaly in that he likes to watch football, but could give two shits about the context surrounding the game. It literally does not matter to him if he's watching a UFL game or the Super Bowl. It's all the same shit to him. He says he just likes to watch the hitting. The circumstances, players, and personalities mean nothing to him. He just likes seeing the action when he sees it. I don't know whether to admire him, or to shake the shit out of him.

I think it's probably better to have a partner-in-crime to sneak away to watch games with during the day. Then again, people are more likely to notice you're missing, so I'm not really sure.

Patriots at Saints: Holy shit, this game is AWESOME. And it's gonna be completely ruined by Jaws and Gruden. THIS GUY DREW BREES. HE'S JUST A FLAT-OUT COMPETITOR WHO WANTS TO WIN. I hate it when analyst says that. "He just wants to win." Well, no fucking shit. Even the guys half-assing it out there want to win the goddamn game.

If there's any team I'd like to see win the Super Bowl other than my own, it's the Saints. But man alive, they sure turn the ball over and let other teams score a lot. That can't be a good omen. AND THAT'S MY HARDCORE FOOTBALL ANALYSIS.

Four Throwgasms

Colts at Texans: My wife's family is from Germany (none affiliated with Rolf), so a lot of times my wife's German aunt will send over a bunch of German toys for the kids to play with. One of these toys is a plush sun that plays a German lullaby. We keep it in the ten-month-old's crib. Anyway, the lullaby this toy plays has the EXACT same fucking melody as "The Gambler". No lie. You pull the string, and suddenly it's playing "The Gambler". So now, every night, I'm pulling the string on this thing and singing to my kid, "You gotta know when to hold ‘em… WHEN TO HOLD ‘EM!" My son will be shot dead dealing blackjack on a riverboat in twenty-five years.

One other thing about having foreign relatives. If you have relatives who do not speak English, and you don't speak their native language either, you will ALWAYS, by law, be the only one around to pick up the phone whenever they call for your wife, or the person in the house that DOES speak their native tongue. The German aunt calls my house once a month, and I'm always the only person around to pick up. What then ensues is a conversation of aggressive retardation, where I over pronounce words very loudly in English so that they might resemble something she recognizes. SHE'S NOT HOME, YES? I also make hand gestures, WHILE ON THE PHONE. As if she can see them. I am a fucking moron.

Giants at Broncos: Oh, thank God the Broncos suck again. That was a close one.

Three Throwgasms

Packers at Lions: This is a much better game than the Cowboys-Raiders shitfest happening later on. Both Aaron Kampman and Al Harris are done for the year for the Packers. MORE MATT STAFFORD HEROICS ARE IN STORE!

Panthers at Jets: Gallo noted this first. Say hello to the Inside the BCS Twitter feed, designed to give you college football fans all the BCS propaganda you can handle! Important things like "bracket creep" are discussed.

When Plus-1 was discussed in '08, one big hurdle was the inevitable bracket creep. 4 teams, maybe. Then 8? 16? 32?

Oh, no! A 32-team playoff tournament in college football? A month-long orgy of meaningful college games that could redefine my existence and challenge the dominance of the NFL? HORRORS! Yes, I'd sure hate to see that happen. What a tragedy. Much better to have a drama-free year in which the title game of Texas-SEC champ was already set in stone ages ago. The BCS can choke on AIDS.

Bears at Vikings: I saw the "Rock With You" video on TV the other day. It's a great song. But I noticed that, in the video, Michael Jackson is dancing just like a white person. It's uncanny, really.

Cardinals at Titans: Man, did Luke Wilson get fat.

Two Throwgasms

Bucs at Falcons: From the mysterious and gifted flubby (and KOGOD) comes the Twitter feed of porn star Bree Olsen, (NSFW) which will turn you on and sadden you in equal measure.

Any men in fort Wayne wanna get me drunk and take advantage of me? That sounds so hot right now.

I only have been getting fucked an average of once a day these days. WTF is up with that?! I need it at least three!

I had some guys over here playing wolrd of warfare 2 on x box 360. Turns me on to see guys play video games. I love it!

As flubby notes, "Jesus Christ, what do you call the diametric opposite of trolling? I love it when guys don't change their underwear for days on end. Skid marks are the best!"

Dolphins at Bills: Need an early xmas gift? How about Bobby Jones' Ultimate Gospel collection? Featuring "He's An On-Time God." That's right! God isn't on CPT anymore!

Redskins at Eagles: A friend of mine just got engaged. For you bachelors out there, there is nothing more terrifying than the time in between the moment you buy an engagement ring, and the moment you propose. Not because you're getting nervous about marriage. But because you're walking around with a bauble in your pocket worth thousands of dollars. You want to get rid of that shit as fast as you can, to give it to your woman so she assumes all responsibility for it. That whole time YOU have the ring, you freak the fuck out over losing it. That's why I never suggest you plan on bringing an engagement ring to some tropical locale, or try hiding it in a soufflé, or some retarded thing like that. Just get rid of the fucker ASAP.

Chiefs at Chargers

Jaguars at 49ers

One Throwgasm

Raiders at Cowboys: I don't understand why the Raiders were included in the Thanksgiving game schedule. It's fucking stupid. The NFL already knows that people are sick of seeing Detroit and Dallas every year at this time. And they knew before the season, damn well, that their only hope for a good day game would be to pair a good team with Dallas, because Detroit is always bad. So why did they have the Raiders come to Dallas? Why not San Diego? Why are you subjecting me to this inevitable 13-10 shitwreck, Goodell? YOU CUNTHAIR.

I think they do this shit on purpose, so that you'll be grateful for the NFL Network game later on (which half the country won't be able to fucking watch, mind you). Assholes.

Browns at Bengals: I'll never get over Hank Poteat, who has been in the league for ten years, believing pass interference is allowable so long as the QB is outside of the pocket.

Also, Eric Mangini is the biggest gash in all of football. His little bitching about the Lions was his worst display of dipshittery yet. It got the KSK gang and I wondering what examples of cheating he'll use next to distract people from his team's horrid play. After all, the Browns can't merely SUCK. No, no. Someone had to CHEAT to outwit dickless over there.

Ufford: "It's no fair the way the other team had more talented players and a better coach."

Flubby: "We had the Bengals beat until that devious Mr. Fuji threw salt in our eyes."

Tunison: "You say it's unlikely the Ravens have developed some kind of debilitating nerve toxin, but do you know for sure? THE LEAGUE TURNS A BLIND EYE TO CHEATING!"

Seahawks at Rams: Kyle Boller is nailing Carrie Prejean, which goes to show that it doesn't matter how bad you are at playing QB, just being a QB in the NFL is enough to ensure you a higher class of tail than most any man on Earth. Stoney Case nailed Ali Landry. Heather Kozar made fingercuffs with Cade McNown and Tim Couch. In fact, Gisele and Hilary Rhoda aside, you're almost better off being a terrible NFL QB if you want to land hot ass. Starting QB's are too busy to nab good pussy. But if you're Matt Leinart, you have all day to talent scout.

Pregame Song That Makes Me Want To Run Through A Goddamn Brick Wall

"Ace of Spades," by Motorhead. This helpful video above points out that the cover of Motohead's cover for the Sacrifice album includes a demon with a vagina for a mouth and a penis for a tongue.

Waiting around for dinner? Go now and immediately read this profile of Lemmy from last month's issue of Rolling Stone (excerpted in the link, otherwise you have to read the actual issue. HOW DARE SOMEONE CHARGE ME FOR CONTENT). In it, you will discover several important facts about Lemmy, such as:

-He still drinks a bottle of Jack a day

-According to Ozzy Osbourne, when Lemmy toured, "[Lemmy] had a plaid bag with three books an a notepad. No change of clothes. His fucking rider was seven bottles of bourbon, eight bottles of vodka, two bottles of orange juice, and that's fucking it!" You know you're a legendary drinker when even Ozzy Osbourne is in awe of your excess. The man needs only liquor to survive.

-He keeps an extensive collection of Nazi war artifacts in his apartment, including Eva Braun's comb. And somehow, this fact makes him even more of a BADASS. Anyone else who keeps Nazi uniforms in their apartment is a fucking Nazi scumbag. But when Lemmy does it? RAWK.

Lemmy rules.

Embarassing Album I Own That Will Not Fire You Up

"Euphoria," by Def Leppard. This was my favorite band back in 1987, before I discovered Metallica. I owned every Def Leppard album. I bought their Historia video compilation. I had their posters all over my wall. And whenever I doodled in class, I wrote everything in the Def Leppard font. I saw them at the Met Center in Bloomington, Minnesota (In the round, IN YOUR FACE!). And whenever they reached #1 on Dial MTV, I would go to school the next day and BRAG to people in my 5th grade class that didn't like Def Leppard that they were #1 the night before. How I went through that period without sucking a dick is beyond me.

Anyway, I still enjoy Def Leppard's music all these years later. I even bought their late period albums, including this one, which was released in 1999, far past their time of relevance. And I still listen to some of the shit on this album. ‘CAUSE YOU'RE LIVING ON A PAPER SUNNNNNN…

I know they never admitted it, but I bet that rig they set up for the one-armed drummer totally didn't work. They just stuck a drum machine under the stage and let Rick Allen tard away on his special, noiseless kit all he pleased.

Open Mailbag Tuesdays
Got something you want displayed for show and tell in the Deadspin Tuesday Mailbag? Saw your neighbors break out the ball gags, perhaps? Email me any question or observation you like.

Fantasy Player That Deserves To Die A Slow, Painful Death
Tony Romo and the entire Dallas offense. You all suck, and when that final stretch of Giants/Chargers/Saints/Eagles arrives, and you choke like the choking assholes you are, America will once again dance on your fucking graves. Dicks. PICK A BACK AND STAY WITH HIM, GARRETT.

Suicide Pick Of The Week
Last week's suicide pick of the Steelers was incorrect, making me 8-3 on the year. Keep in mind, this is a year in which there are an uncommon amount of horrid teams. An 8-3 record is fucking pathetic. I hate suicide pools. Anyway, that puts the Steelers, Jets, Falcons, Bears, Colts, Eagles, Vikings, Texans, Ravens, Saints and Skins off the board now. We once again pick a team for your suicide pool and something that makes you WANT to commit suicide. This week's pick? Cincinnati, and sibling rivalry. My kid took a drumstick the other day and smacked the baby with it. HARD. Just drummed the shit out of his head. So I grab the kid, and tried to do my best impression of an angry parent.

Me: WHAT ARE YOU DOING? DON'T HIT YOUR BROTHER LIKE THAT!

Her: I like princesses.

How do you reason with these fucking monsters? They evade the issues more easily than your average politician.

Nazi Shark's Vegas 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.

"This week, I like the Raiders getting 13.5 points against Dallas on the road. I hung out with Lemmy once back in ‘82. He was playing a festival in Dusseldorf and I was there to see Skrewdriver. Bought a Hitler mustache hair from him for 40 marks. Good guy."

2009 Nazi Shark Record: 6-5.

This Week's Pants Party Winner
Last week's Pants Party winner was J. Ramirez. He did not come to claim his prize. This week's winner was P. Kuszynski. Hey Kuszynski, come claim your prize, you stupid Polack!

Great Moments In Poop History
I know many of you, including Leitch, skip the weekly poop story. Well, I implore not to miss this week's entrant. It's from our very own AJ Daulerio, and it is titled, "The Last Pickle In The Jar". It is your editor's Thanksgiving gift to you. Enjoy.

AJ: So, my friend Dorfman got married last April. We have a long history of playing horrible practical jokes on each other. He was very paranoid about what I had planned for his wedding night since we were staying in the same hotel. This was a wedding attended by the likes of Leitch, Aileen, Jim Cooke, etc.

Me: Dorfman? Kent Dorfman?

AJ: Matt Dorfman.

Me: Great name.

AJ: So one time at Spring Break when I was in college, you know, I played this joke on one of the other guys who was staying in our crappy Bahamaian hotel. He was a real bitch about his Do Not Disturb sign and would be a real asshole to the help. So I took the little hotel glass and scooped out my own turd from the toilet, ran up to his room, banged on the door, left the glass outside of it and ran away. He throws open the door, kicks the glass over, so now there's a big turd sitting in the middle of the hallway on our floor. SO. I tell Cooke about this and decided I want to do the same thing to Dorfman on his wedding night. I'm describing the glass full of poop and how it just floats in there with its flecks of poop and everything and Cooke says, "It's just like the last pickle in the jar." Brilliant, I thought. It shall be named that forever and ever. SO. I'm staying in Aileen's room. As you can probably tell, Aileen does not enjoy these types of hijinx.

Me: I don't even know why she knows you, honestly.

AJ: In order to pull it off I have to sneak up to the room while she's down at the bar to try to pull it off. I go into the bathroom, drop the deuce, grab the glass and go in to try to scoop.
Granted, I wasn't as drunk as I was in college the first time I did this, so I kind of tried to do a swooshing motion with the glass in order to get the poop in the glass. This only resulted in causing a little wave in the toilet — enough to force the turd up over the rim and go scooting across the bathroom floor.

Me: "The slippery eel"

AJ: Indeed. So now I have this wet turd on Aileen's bathroom floor and I have no idea when she's coming up. I frantically pick it up with some gobs of toilet paper and throw it back in the bowl. Knock on the door. It's Cooke. He comes in, the smell hits him, and he's like "What the fuck happened?!" As I explain to him the situation and the turd scooting across the floor, he proceeds to vomit in the hotel sink. So now we're both frantically trying to get the puke out of the sink and the lingering turd smell out of the room before Aileen comes back up. Knowing her, she'd probably call the police on us and never speak to us again. We succeed. However, that night, I reveal to Dorfman what my plan was and tell him the whole ordeal. He thinks it's the greatest thing in the world and proceeds to tell the whole wedding party about what happened. The next day at breakfast, Aileen won't even speak to me again because she heard about the whole thing. And that's the Last Pickle In The Jar.

Fire This Asshole!
Is there anything more exciting than a coach losing his job? All year long, we'll keep track of which coaches will almost certainly get fired at year's end or sooner. And now, your updated chopping block:

Tom Cable*
Jim Zorn
Eric Mangini
Jim Mora
Dick Jauron – FIRED!
Lovie Smith
Wade Phillips

Ugh. These stirring turnarounds by the Titans and other miserable teams has reduced our firing pool significantly. Come on, bad teams. Suck MORE.

Thanksgiving Snack Of The Week

French's Fried Onions. Every year, we make the white trash green bean casserole, and I eat half the can of onions before they've even gone into the mix. Especially the big, chunky ones that have been fused together in the frying process. This annoyed the Mrs. So I suggested, this year, that she buy TWO cans of the things. One for the casserole. The other for my snacking enjoyment. "How about you just keep your fat ass away from the one can I buy?" she said. Pfft. That's hardly a feasible option, woman.

Gametime Cheap Beer Of The Week

Sportz! Reader DT writes in:

This is not a recommendation but rather a warning. Take heed.

High school. Texas. Mid-90s. There was this family-owned, Middle Eastern grocery that would sell us beer after-hours, in an alley behind the store. Very classy. And they charged us practically double since we were very clearly teenagers and not of legal drinking age. Because of that, WHAT we drank was completely at their discretion. There was a lot of Thunderbird and Mad Dog 20/20 ("Oooh! I hope it's Banana Red this week!") and the Beast and shit like that, but eventually they decided that even that stuff was too good for us, so they would just bring us whatever warm piss they couldn't sell. And that was how Sportz beer was introduced into my life. It was so bad you couldn't even bong it. For years it ruined beer for me altogether. Anything that makes you long wistfully for Mad Dog is pure evil.

Oh man, does that beer look horrible. I MUST HAVE IT.

Robert Evans' MVP Watch!
Time to start thinking about who the leaders are for the NFL's MVP award. So every week, legendary Hollywood producer Robert Evans will join us to give us his assessment. Take it away, Mr. Evans.

"Baby, my favorite for the NFL's MVP this year is Brett Favre of the Vikings. The old man! The gunslinger! You know, I too knew a gunslinger in my day. JOHN FORD! The one and only. Stagecoach? You bet! How Green Was My Valley? Very green, indeed. Ol' Ford loved taking his guns around with him anywhere he went on the set. Said it helped him keep the crew on their toes. One time, I saw Ford pull a gun on his DP. And he told that poor sucker, ‘Son, you don't get me a proper sunset, I'll shoot this gun right into your stupid little skull.' And I'll be damned if that DP didn't use all the shades and filters at his disposal to make a rainy evening look like the Grand Canyon at dusk! It's amazing what a director can do with a gun in his hands. I miss those days. Crazy? YOU BET! Glorious? Goddamn right."

Sunday Afternoon Movie Of The Week For Browns Fans

Star Trek. Here, in one corner, we have Spock. Coldly analytical. Devoid of feelings. Dismissive of emotional factors and relying only on sound math and logic. In the other corner, we have Kirk. Impulsive. RECKLESS. Goes with his gut. Don't you see what's really going on here? Spock is Ken Tremendous: a SABREMETRICIAN OF INTERPLANETARY WARFARE. And Kirk is Buzz Bissinger, and the Romulans really piss the shit out of him. And Bones is Murray Chass.

Gratuitous Simpsons Quote
"My parents won't let me use scissors!"

Halftime Masturbation Kit
-For the guys: Nina Senicar. (NSFWCC) She's foreign.
-For the gals: Pro surfer Kelly Slater. Pfft. What's he got that I don't besides a toned body, tremendous athletic ability, and a natural kinship with the sea?

Enjoy the games, everyone. Happy Thanksgiving. Drive safely.

I lost my remote the other day, which caused me to have a heart attack and seizure simultaneously. Remote control location is a real problem when you have two kids. The baby thinks it's a fucking chew toy and always grabs it to slobber all over it. The three-year-old wants to operate the TV with it but is too young and stupid to figure it out. So it always ends up under a couch cushion, or some other goddamn place. And I myself am always leaving it in random place after another: on top of the TV, on the desk, on the kitchen counter, etc. I never leave it in one place, which makes me an idiot. I used to always leave it on the armrest of my chair, but the little fuckers can reach it there.

What the world needs is a remote control pager. A quick Google search reveals other people have thought of this idea, but no one's ever put it into practice, which is crazy. Your cordless phone has a pager on the base if you lose it. You just push the button and the handset beeps. It's awesome.

The problem is that most remote controls are universal remotes that come with the cable box issued to you by your cable company. That renders your TV remote all but worthless. All universal remotes need to come with a little paging device you can stick on top of the TV or the cable box. So you can push it, and find out the remote is stuck in the dog's rectum. I need this because losing the remote control is up there on the list of things I'm always terrified of losing. I'll look around, see the remote is nowhere in sight, and my fear grows exponentially by the second as I slowly to come realize I cannot locate it. Here's that list, very hastily assembled:

1. Last M&M in the bag
2. Wallet
3. Cell Phone
4. Keys
5. iPod
6. Camera
7. Remote Control
8. Baby

Onto the mail. We start, as always, in the poop department:

Sports Pun

Am I the only one who takes a peek, mid-movement? There's a sense of deep satisfaction in seeing how far up the bowl you can make that coil...coil. I just like to keep tabs, see how my progress is.

I also check mid-movement because I find that, if I check AFTER I've wiped, the wad of toilet paper obscures my view of my masterpiece. Did I lay down a packet of gravel, or did I pump out a Burmese python? I need to know. That's MY poop. It's got MY name on it and it's going out into the world. So, really, you have no choice but to look pre-wipe if you want a proper assessment.

HoC:

Has becoming a father made you more of a pussy? Before I had kids I could watch any horrific story, movie, newscast whatever and not be overly affected. But now, it doesn't take much to start some water works.

Yup. HUGE pussy. Any Pixar film completely ruins my shit. It doesn't even have to be a movie or anything like that. Just show me a print ad with some parent hugging their child. OH MY GOD! LITTLE JUNIOR! I HUG HIM JUST LIKE THAT! WHERE DOES OUR YOUTH GO?!!! I also wince at movie violence more than I used to, which bothers me. I used to be totally desensitized to movie violence. Now, seeing someone get sliced in half actually AFFECTS me, which is terrible.

Also, to go on a complete tangent, I get into enormous fights with my old lady over the volume of the television. She's always badgering me to turn it down so the kids don't wake up. And I'm like, "Woman, I can't FUCKING HEAR WHAT THE FUCK THE PEOPLE ARE SAYING NOW." "Well, I can." "Well, cram it. I'm turning this shit up." It's the worst during movies, because I have to jack it up to hear the dialogue, then turn it way the fuck down during the screaming and gunfights and shit. And so I can't get INTO the fucking movie because I'm always worried that the goddamn thing isn't going to be too loud for her tastes. Even if she's NOT around, I'm mindful of the volume now. I'm brainwashed! GAH!!!! In fact, let's make that another question to ask women before you propose to them:

"I know you have the hearing of fucking Spiderman. But I can't hear shit. So will you please let me turn up the fucking volume and leave it in one place during the fucking movie so I can live peacefully?"

Travis:

BACON MUG!

Mmmm… cop o' pork.

Donovan:

My daughter is now 16 months. At what age to I have to start changing my TV viewing habits? Last winter we were avid Dexter and Wire viewers. Is it now wrong for her to see a naked John Lithgow cutting up some broad in the tub?

From personal experience, I don't have a single memory from when I was younger than three. So I'm certain that nothing I saw before that affected me in any way, shape, or form. Now, excuse me while I go dissect this living cat.

The real question is, why is your kid up when Dexter and The Wire are on? I was in New York last week, and every retard parent in that town keeps their kid up past 10PM and drags them out to restaurants and movies and shit. You are a lousy parent if you do this. Lock the kid in the room at 7PM every night until they learn to fall asleep at a normal kid time. "But Drew, I work and I never get to spend quality time with my kid if I don't let them stay up late! WAHHHHH!!!" Shut up and die. Your kid's a fucking brat and I hope he falls into a river.

E:

So, asshole, how hard are you going to make it to get into the mailbag? Two straight weeks I've submitted a question, no answer. I write to your mailbag because I know I'll never make it to Simmons'. You're like the younger sister of the hot chick I want to bone who I like enough to get me off, but only if I put a flag over her head and bang her for the USA.

Wait wait, so I'm a FOREIGN chick?

Hank:

Hey, I saw this last week and don't know if anyone has pointed you to the latest from Peter King's roadtrip pal Ross Tucker but there was a comment in his most recent mailbag that I found quite remarkable in its cultural relevance cluelessness.

Reader: Perry Fewell? I was wondering what happened to the guy after Jane's Addiction broke up. Did Dick Jauron deserve the axe? — Stefan van den Abeelen, San Jose, Calif.

Tucker: I don't own an iPod and the last CD I bought was the Rocky IV soundtrack in ninth grade, if you can believe that. So I don't get your musical reference, unfortunately.

Doing the math, this makes Ross about the same age as me (36). I guess for him, music reached its creative zenith with Survivor, Kenny Loggins & Gladys Knight, and Vince DiCola.

Your math is wrong. Tucker is actually 30 years old, three years younger than me. He grew up outside Reading, Pennsylvania and he attended Princeton. So that is weird. How the fuck do you go through high school and fancy pants college in the 90's without encountering Jane's Addiction at some point? A song? A CD case? A poster? Bizarre.

I also don't understand people who aren't "into" music. I'm not saying you have to be a music nerd. I'm talking about people who have NO interest in any music of any kind. People like Tucker, who have never bought CD's or anything like that. What's that? Music? That thing people do when they want to transcend spoken communication by adding rhythm and harmony? Why would I be interested in such a thing?

Anon:

Wife and I live on the alley-side of a walkup, directly facing the building next door. Our buildings are basically the same, so our bedroom is directly across from theirs, etc etc. Pretty soon after we moved in, I (and not my wife) realized our curtain-less neighbors liked to have lots of loud sex, for over an hour, roughly 5 times a week. Multiple crazy positions. Lots of oral. How did I realize this? Because they have no curtains.

Now, believe me, this is fucking awesome. The guy is a mirror image of me (Overweight and hairy, what could be better?) and she is pretty cute, big rack, and way out of the guy's league. However, this setup is causing me 2 specific problems.

1. I can't fall asleep when I know this is going on. In fact, I wait for my wife to fall into a deep sleep, get up and go to the window, and furiously jack off.

2. The quality and length of their sex depresses me

I need some help here.

1. Am I a sick pervert for watching, or does the fact that they are putting it out there, make it my DUTY to watch and jerk?

2. How do I get over said depression when comparing their life to mine?

Is your wife deaf or something? How does she not notice all that loud sex? Does she think there's a bat in the crawlspace? Anyway, I think it's creepy for you to jerk WHILE watching your neighbors fornicate. The polite thing to do is watch, then go to the bathroom and jerk it out from the insta spank bank. That's the ethical way of doing it.

I'd point out the hot next door action to your wife. At best, she'd get kinda turned on by it. At worst, she forbids you from watching, and your ethical dilemma is solved for you.

Sean:

If you are splitting a pizza with your wife, what is the appropriate split?

I say 60/40 for men is appropriate. You know you want it to be 70 or 80% in your favor, so only taking 60% is being quite the gentleman.

Yeah, 60/40 is about right. But it's true, I'd eat all but one slice if I could get away with it. The worst is when there's a slice left on the pie that your wife doesn't want, and then she gives you that look like, "YOU shouldn't want to have it either." FUCK. THAT. I'm eating the shit out of that last slice.

I've also occasionally misjudged when my wife was finished with her meal, and begun eating her leftovers before obtaining proper permission. She had half this slice of pizza on her plate the other night that was sitting there for a good ten minutes. I thought she was done. Who just pauses forever midway through a slice like that? WOMEN. Anyway, I grab it and dig in, and she's like, "OY! I wasn't finished!" And I'm like, "Well, you should have hurried the fuck up, missy."

Matt:

Can we nominate a new national anthem? "This Land is Your Land" gets my vote.

No. Everyone bitches about the Anthem. WAHHH THE HIGH NOTES ARE TOO HIGH. Whatever. It's fine. If you decide to change it, the assholes who love "God Bless America" will try and have it takes its place, and I fucking hate that song.

Brian:

I like to pregame with a Mike's Hard or two to get the buzz started in order to avoid chugging too much beer too fast. I want to know, is it too much of a pansy move to use Mike's Hard instead of beer (cause I can chug it like water) or should I keep doing this in secret?

Keep it hidden. Mike's Hard Lemonade is for queers. UNLESS YOU GOT TO HOLY FACKIN CRAWSS!

John:

I'm a normal 25 year old guy who likes a good tug in the morning as much as the next guy, but my mom has three of these goddamn little dogs running around. I had one on the couch that I was sleeping on (at the foot of the couch) and I decided I wanted to get rid of the morning wood the fun way. So what do I do? Do I stroke away? Or do I go to the bathroom because having a couple on eyes on you can be a little distracting? Personally, I said fuck the dogs and just tugged it anyways but what's the proper protocol?

We had a KSK mailbagger ask about fucking in front of a dog. I'll give you the same answer. Next time: cum ON the dog. It'll never bother you again.

Hozzleshank:

Okay Drew, I'm nearly 34 and I think I have been wiping my ass wrong all these years. I lift my ballsack with one hand and use the bunched paper with my other (bunched, never folded, right?). But I have a sneaky suspicion that I should be leaning forward and wiping from behind.

I lean forward. You're supposed to wipe front to back to avoid getting poop on your genitals. Really more important for women to do. I also bunch my toilet paper. I used to try folding to prevent waste, but I find my fingers often puncture the paper mid-wipe. We call that the Mudfinger Surprise.

Cory:

As a parent, I'm sure that you have made your share of macaroni and cheese dinners. So who you got? The regular old mac and cheese that has been around since WWII or the updated deluxe shells and cheese? Powdered cheese or cheese sauce? Either one probably causes the same amount of cancer.

I will only eat mac and cheese from a box. The powder one, not the Velveeta shit. I'm a complete freak. Homemade mac and cheese completely repulses me.

Seth:

Is this you drew?

Oh, you bastard. That looks like Leitch and I made a love child.

Scott:

You bear an uncanny resemblance to the guy in the Enterprise rental car commercial who says "both" when his wife asks him if she should pack the red or black lingerie. I fucking hate that guy. Why do Enterprise commercials suck so hard? Is it intentional, like Mentos commercials? The one where the black guy holds up the Styrofoam finger at the end makes me irrationally angry.

Enterprise commercials belong in the same group at the Ovaltine and Slomin's Shield commercials, ads made in-house (without agency help) by companies run by nutjobs. Remember the McGwire ones they used to run? "He picked up his bat, then he picked up our hearts." Fuck you, Enterprise.

Ferg:

I've noticed you have been using the term "what not" a lot recently in your articles. Whenever I hear somebody use that term in conversation I automatically deduct twenty points from their IQ because it's a lazy and unnecessary way to end a sentence.

Fair enough, and what not.

Sean:

When is it ok to take a shit in a stadium bathroom? Because we all know that those stalls are used for three things only: puking, fucking, and snorting coke.

And pissing! I like pissing in the stall because I get stagefright at the trough. I get angry when someone is actually shitting in the stall. Every guy who uses those stalls to shit happily takes half an hour sitting there, working it out. You're at a game, buddy. You could have saved your money and shat for three hours at home like a normal person.

Laura:

I hold a big Thanksgiving at my apartment every year for all of my friends. This year, because I love me some pie, I'm considering adding a 4th pie to the mix (I usually have chocolate, apple, and pumpkin), but my friends are totally giving me the run-around on the 4th pie addition. No one seems to have an opinion. So what do you think? Is the 4th pie necessary? And, if so, what's the ideal type of pie?

Who would say no to extra pie? Assholes, that's who. Bourbon Pecan, you wild baking BITCH! Deadspin will also accept sweet potato.

Randball:

We have the kind of shampoo in our shower that's in a pump-style container. Hence, I never have to lift it up.

Just to interrupt Rand here, I knock my shampoo bottle down off its proper resting place on the soapdish or in the shower caddy at least once a week, and it always lands on my foot, causing me ungodly pain, making me angry, and ending with me picking up the bottle and smashing it back down on the shower floor to teach it a lesson.

But today, I grabbed the shampoo to see how much was left. It felt like somewhere between 30 and 40 percent, and this satisfied me. It meant I didn't have to worry about shampoo for a while. I started thinking about other household items and how much of them I like to have on hand to feel comfortable. Anything above the number and I don't think about the item; anything below and it goes into a mental file folder that says we need to pick some up in the relatively near future. My arbitrary totals:

7 eggs.

3 rolls of toilet paper.

8 slices of bread.

4 beers.

Most of a package of shredded cheese.

And so on.

I'm assuming most people do this, but I'm wondering if there are ranges of amounts that are universally agreed upon. Or not? Are you a hoarder, Drew? Do you let things completely run out and then buy them frantically?

This is why I have a wife. She's the one who keeps the tallies in the house. When I was single, I let everything run out. Especially toilet paper. You'd think you'd learn your lesson the first time you wipe your ass with a paper towel roll. You would be wrong.

However, I always refill my gas when it hits a quarter tank. I never tempt fate. And I always have a sixer of beer in the fridge at all times. You need six. Four isn't enough.

Francouer's plate discipline:

When in the shower what would you consider and appropriate percentage of ball/groin washing as compared to other body washing. 80/20, 90/10?

99/1 is also fine. I could slap my soapy nuts around for HOURS. Ever seduce yourself in the shower? You start washing your balls and things suddenly take an EROTIC turn? You never expected it to happen. It just did. Suddenly, you're jerkin' with suds. You're IRRESISTIBLE.

Elegant Slim:

Ever misjudge a boner when taking a girly1 (sitting down pissing) and pee down the back of your Knicks shorts? I have, and I just did.

You don't even have to have a boner. You can just have a little chub, so that your dick sits up on your nuts a little higher than usual. Suddenly, BOOM! You hit the edge of the rim or over it and everything is a goddamn mess. I swear, I pee everywhere.

Pete:

what the fuck qualifies you to write any kind of advice column? just from reading the last two i can obvisously see your some kind of dork/dweeb/twerp/pussy. you admit to playing dungeons and dragons growing up and i looked up your picture and your a fat nerd. your'e trying to be bill simmons except your not funny, your fat, ur a nerd, and you've never snorted coke yet offer advice on it. i guarentee i could do your job better than you, your advice sucks, i cant believe sumone gave you a column and people actually write into it. wat a joke.

That message was totally written on an iPhone.

Greg:

When using public urinals, I frequently find myself having the loudest stream. Short of 'tightening the hose', I'm wondering if there's a way to lower the decibels of my release. Is it due to the proximity of my ears to the urine, or have I just been pissing incorrectly for the last 27 years? Granted I really force it out when I'm in there.

That's not anything to be ashamed of. LET YOUR HOSE FIRE. I've woken up my wife in the middle of the night with the sound of my stream. It's fun, like collecting Indian scalps.

CG:

Drew, have you ever had the satisfaction of shitting on a BRAND NEW toilet?? Freshly cleaned is one thing, but taking a toilet's v card is quite another. I work in new home construction as a project manager (we build the same cookie cutter houses a million times in about an acre of land). So daily I get to choose which new toilet to deflower. Its incredible, and the best part is, unlike offices, I can take my sweet sweet time without anyone waiting in line behind me.

That's nothing. If you're a suicide bomber, you get to deflower 72 toilets when Allah meets you in heaven.

As I said before, I once pooped in a model home, and it was fantastic. Like shitting on a silk tablecloth.

Kevin:

As an IT guy who works at a pretty big ad firm, I think I can offer some advice when it comes to watching porn on a work computer. The bottom line is, it's 2009. The majority of companies aren't monitoring web traffic for decency violations. As you've already touched on, many websites blur the line between NSFW and SFW. As such, companies are generally not interested in spending time and money on policing web traffic. It's just too messy and inexact. Unless of course, you give them a reason to. And that reason is bandwidth.

If you're watching porn all day in your office, the massive amount of bandwidth you consume WILL get noticed. But that only applies to in the office. While traveling, you're consuming someone else's bandwidth, and so your company doesn't give a flying fuck what you're looking at. That being said, definitely doesn't hurt to use private browsing because when you're showing the client a youtube video you don't want to embarrass yourself when the dropdown shows the 75 youporn videos you stayed up all night watching after typing "you" in the address bar. Moral of the story: if you must watch porn on your company computer, do it out of the office.

I suggest you print that email out and tack it to your cubicle wall.

Mitch:

Tony Dungy. His blank stare, cheek bones and all around robotic movements make him look a hell of a lot like that creepy Jigsaw bastard from the Saw movies.

It's true. He does sort of look like a ghost of himself.

Ogreyouasshole

I have a daughter who just turned 3. Whenever she "draws" anything on paper- it seems like it must go to The Smithsonian...and lately everything she draws on requires my wife to save it. Case in point- she drew on my wife's birthday card envelope (it looked like one half of Rorschach's mask). After she read the card and opened her gift, I tossed the envelope and got The Look from both of the girls. So, what's the policy with kids and their drawings? What can I toss & more importantly what should I keep?

Yeah. We have one wall coated with all the shit my kid has made. It's at the point now where we find space for a new art project by randomly throwing one of the old ones away. Kids only care about the shit they JUST did. If it's weeks old, you get away with disposing of it piecemeal. What was this even supposed to be? A bus? Maddox says the kid is retarded.

Walk that burst appendix off, young man

Will:

I moved from New York to Texas my freshman year of high school. I was the starting goalie for the varsity soccer team. On the first day of the season I had terrible stomach pains… unbearable pain. I was barely able to walk.

I informed my coach that I would not be able to play because of how I felt. He proceeded to blow up in my face on the bus ride to our opening away game. While driving the bus of course, looking in the giant mirror screaming at me the whole drive. Everyone got off the bus and he held me back. Telling me "You're worthless, your letting me down and your entire team. Carry the fucking water jug to the field."

On any other day carrying the water jug would be no big deal. Being in the pain I was in it was close to impossible. It took me roughly a half hour to carry the jug about 200 yards. Would have been longer if my teammates hadn't helped.

During the game we were getting destroyed 4-0 at halftime and I was laying on my back looking at the sky wondering if I should be going to an emergency room. All of a sudden "coach sensitivity" slams his clipboard straight down on my stomach screaming, "I want you to watch what you're doing to your fucking team today!"

When my mom picked me up that night from school I went straight to the emergency room and was immediately rushed into surgery to have my appendix taken out. It was so bad I was in the operating room 20 minutes after entering the crowded emergency room. I was in the hospital for 3 weeks and lost 30 pounds due to an infection. Coach could not be bothered to visit me during that time.

Also known as The Utah Handshake

Jimmy:

How about just a coach that likes assholes?

A lacrosse coach is a douchebag? I'm stunned.

Chung:

A friend of mine quit the sport after a summer camp with Coach X, namely after a singular incident where he demonstrated the art of the top of the box face dodge. After instructing a young camper to demonstrate a face dodge (basically the same as a basketball crossover move, but with a stick and whiter) against another camper who acted as a defender, he proceeded to berate the offensive camper with words such as "pussy," "faggot," and "nancy" liberally dropped.

After this dressing down in front of a group of 25 12-year-olds, Coach X proceeded to take the young campers stick and demonstrate his idea of a face dodge. At 6'3", 240 lbs., and never without a small stream of Skoal-stained spittle tracing his cheek, he cuts a rather intimidating figure to any layman, let alone a 12-year-old camper trying to defend this wildebeest of a man. On cue, Coach X makes his move, runs over the defending camper, takes two more steps and proceeds to rip a 90-plus mph shot that misses the camp goalie's head by an inch. After a split second to savor his work, he turns around, stands over the vanquished defender and starts screaming "that's how you fucking face dodge, mutherfucker," over and over again until his bulging forehead veins can take no more.

But while only one young soul's health was affected by this tirade, his driving tactics while assistant coach at (name redacted) managed to put thousands of turnpike passengers at risk. The man would use the turn signals opposite of his turning intentions, drift directly and violently into the middle of cars in adjacent lanes, and "pump fake" big rigs in order to clear lanes out for his own passage, or, in his words, "keep those fuckers thinking."

The man, to this day, calls his wife his "girlfriend," and last I heard, which was granted four years ago, still owns a bar in town with the owners quarters only to be used as a coke and sluts den where he, his brother, and his numerous former and current players go those summer nights when said opportunities arise. On the times I visited not a single fake-breasted bartender knew that Coach X was married, and many had "intimate" experience with said back room shenanigans.

Coach X, by his senior year at (name redacted), was the best lacrosse player in the state, and considered by some the best player in the country. In his last game against bitter rivals the (name redacted) he vowed to pull a stunt that would intimidate and unhinge the opponents to the point of making a final win assured. In the minutes leading up to the opening faceoff, as the rivals are going through their pre-game warmup stretches on the other side of half-field, Coach X slowly walks to the midfield faceoff circle, takes a knee, takes his gloves off, and proceeds to stay kneeled for a period of a few minutes, the only movement being slight adjustments to his shorts every few seconds.

As any male who has played sports that required the wear of shorts can attest, the taking of a knee for a period longer than a few seconds generally indicates that said kneeler is urinating through a leghole. But the players can clearly see no stream or splash of urine, and instead are captivated by the sight of the best player on the field kneeling at midfield for no apparent reason. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Coach X puts his gloves back on, stands up straight, and proceeds to shake a frankenfurter-sized piece of shit out of his shorts for everyone to see. With the laughter of players in the background and Coach X nonchalantly walking back towards his bench, one by one rival players rise to take a peek at what they cannot believe they just saw and, horrified, return to their sideline in stunned disbelief at the psycho who they had to play against who just shook a shit out of his shorts. Unsurprisingly, Coach X's team handily won the game.

And this one we call THE UNBLINKING EYE

Dave:

My middle school basketball coach was a grade A asshole. In order to make us better "shooters", he would punish the players who took shots and missed the rim by giving them licks after practice or games. He would line up any offending players and give out the licks in front of everyone. These were not just swats. He would smack your ass hard.

Of course, all this did was make the players scared as hell to shoot the ball for fear of the punishment. We had essentially three players who scored all of the points. My scared ass scored 1. The same coach was pissed because we had only won by 12 points in an out of town game. We were ordered not to speak during the hour-long bus ride back home. When one of the players misplaced his lunch bag and asked where it was, the coach screamed "I've got you now! Licks at the gym!" That poor guy spent the rest of the ride tearing out paper from his spiral notebook and stuffing it in the back of his pants as a cushion, which only made him get even more licks back at the gym.

The name of that coach? Kevin Spacey.

Zach:

My 7th grade basketball coach, we'll call him "Coach C" was probably a lot like many of the coaches we've had in various sports...he lived at home with his mother (in his mid 50's), regaled us with tales of his former athletic glory (none of which went beyond the high school level, of course), and treated us like red-headed step children who just pissed the bed as he wailed basketballs at us as we did various drills to encourage toughness...so basically your typical asshole coach. Well, my coach had one other habit that seemed to distinguish him from other douchebag coaches we've all had... this guy really liked looking at naked boys.

After our first practice we all filed into the locker room, expecting to throw on our clothes and leave...you know, like normal 13 year olds...when "Coach C" stormed in and informed us that after every practice/game we would be required to shower before leaving, and refusal to do so would mean getting kicked off the team. Well, like any other pubescent boy, we looked around exchanging glances that said "You've got to be fucking kidding me," but this was the upper level team in a good high school program, so everyone basically went along with this so as to not jeopardize our spot on the team.

As if having to strip down naked and be in the general vicinity of 11 other naked guys at the age of 13 wasn't fucked up enough, our coach made sure that he was standing inside the shower to make sure "we weren't screwing around." So, every day this dickhead sat there and stared at us showering, with one leg propped up on a cooler that he brought to every practice that one day we discovered was filled with Budweiser... Yeah, it's amazing how these people always seem to migrate towards positions in direct contact with kids.

We finished the year and moved on to the next grade and a new coach, so of course on the first day of practice one of the first questions asked was "Coach, do we still have to shower after every practice?" Our new coach looked at us and went "Why the fuck do I care if you shower or not, I'm not your mother..." It was at that point that it started to dawn on us that something really messed up had happened. To my knowledge nothing ever happened to "Coach C," a few of us mentioned it to other people in the school district, but many of them thought we were making it up so nothing ever became of it. I really have blocked that out because the older I get (I'm 24 now), the more it pisses me off that no one ever did anything about it.... I don't know if this story has the same humor as the other ones you guys have published, but if this guy isn't the personification of an "Asshole Coach," no one is...

Father/coaches are always the best coaches

Matt:

In 5th grade I played for my catholic grade school basketball team, and we were horrible. Just awful. I don't think we ever lost a game by less than 20 points. Keep in mind we were in 5th grade. 5th graders don't score many points. Nevertheless, every team might as well have been the Harlem Globetrotters.

The coach's son was an annoying twerp who started every game despite the fact that he couldn't comprehend the concept of a standard layup. Just like how Derek Zoolander couldn't turn left, the coach's son only understood reverse layups, which consistently slammed the bottom of the rim. The coach would very publicly berate his son during games after each horribly missed lay up, but to no avail. He only understood reverse layups.

One evening practice, presumably after another confidence shattering loss, we got in line to start our standard lay up drill. "do a regular lay up, son, you need to learn how to do these if you want to play high school ball like your old man," our coach said. He son hesitantly dribbled to the net, then, after a few stutter steps, missed another reverse layup.

Coach was stared at his son, squeezing the basketball in his hand. It was the son's turn again. "come on son, its just a jump shot, except you dribble up to the net." you could see the gears turning in the son's mind. He slowly approached the net... Closer...closer... He slowed down on the correct side... Then took two extra steps and actually made a reverse layup. The son raised his arms in triumph. Suddenly, overcome with rage, coached cocked the arm holding a basketball and delivered a screaming fast ball nailing the back of head of his son's head, knocking him down to the ground. "YOU THINK THIS IS A FUCKING GAME?!"

We then horribly lost the next game.

MOOSE IS UP!

Curt:

When I was 13 I began playing Babe Ruth baseball (13-15), and had no idea what I was getting myself into. The team was composed of 9 13-year-olds, a couple 14-year-olds, and 2 15-year-olds. The first day our league allowed practice was March 1st of that year. No other teams practiced that day, mainly because it was SNOWING. It wasn't even a flurry, our entire field was literally covered in an inch of snow...

Our field also had no fence, and I am not exaggerating when I say our outfield was 700+ feet of fair grounds. By the way, I gave up a ton of inside the parkers there but that's a different story... Anyways, I remember our first practice we went over team rules and then took two laps around the gigantic outfield in the freezing cold. The next practice we arrived and he told us to throw our gloves behind the dugout. He gave us wooden paddles with straps on the back of them and made us use them as gloves... keep in mind it was still freezing cold out, it had just snowed a couple days earlier. So we are passing baseball in the freezing cold with wooden ping pong paddles as gloves. Then we take our positions on the field... and I'll admit, I was a 5-foot shortstop at that time and could barely get the ball to 1st base anyways, so playing without a glove didn't help any...

Then he started hitting the ball all over the field and for every ghost runner that scored, we ran after practice... Every 4 or 5 batters he'd get a big grin on his face and yell "MOOSE IS UP!!!" Moose was his alter ego slugger who killed the shit outta the ball... He would usually hit them pretty softly, but if he got the bases loaded with ghost runners, he was pinch hitting Moose. And Moose would promptly hit one in the gap for an inside the park grandslam, which meant we had to run 4X more after practice. or he'd hit it down our third basemen's throat. I remember him line driving the pitcher a few times too, and the pitcher wasn't even pitching, he was just fielding the position.

We finished the season 2-23. He quit after that year and most of the players did too. We won 4 games the next year. My career record in Babe Ruth was like 13-60. Fuck Moose.

Got a ladyfriend? Thinking of popping the question to her? Good for you. Now, it's time for you to do your homework. You'd hate to marry your girlfriend without realizing that she has a secret zipper running down the back of her body, and that upon marriage she will unzip this skin suit and reveal that she is actually BEASTULA: VAMPIRE HYDRA QUEEN OF THE FIFTH CIRCLE. It does happen from time to time. Consult the "Succubus" episode of "South Park" for a refresher course.

I am not one of these people who thinks every woman out there is a raving nutjob. As I've said before, I think women are usually the ones who end up getting hosed in the whole marriage deal. They have to give birth. They usually have to do more of the child work. They get less real estate in the bed. They have to fuck men. It's not a pleasant thing. But that doesn't mean guys can't end up getting screwed as well. Here now are ten questions you should politely and discreetly ask any woman before you go ring shopping. YOU COULD TEXT MESSAGE HER THESE! SHE'D LOVE IT!

1. Can we live together for a period of at least one year prior to marriage?

Oh, are you Catholic? Don't like the idea of living in sin? Awww, that's so quaint. You're a fucking moron. Man or woman, you better damn well know if you enjoy the day-to-day experience of living with your potential spouse before you decide to get hitched. And the whole, "Well, we see each other all the time. We pretty much live together anyway," thing is WRONG. It's so terribly wrong. If you have your own place, that means you can GET AWAY.

2. Can we please be married for a period of three years before we begin trying to have children?

No woman will actually agree to three years. Strictly a bargaining point. Ideally, you negotiate down to two, one in a worst-case scenario. Are you marrying a woman over the age of 30? You're fucked. She'll throw away her blister pack of Yasmin two months before your wedding night. But if you're marrying a woman in her twenties, IMPLORE her to give you some time before kids come and ruin everything. Travel. Eat. Have lots of sex. Spend money on retarded things. You can do all that before you have kids. Get as much of that time as possible. Otherwise, you'll have kids, you'll pass each other in the night, and you'll ask yourself, "Hey, WHO THE FUCK IS THIS PERSON?"

3. I know we aren't going to have as much sex once we get married, but exactly how much sex will we NOT have?

Varies by woman. However, as a guideline, I'd take the number of times you have sex a month right now, divide that number by five, and then multiply it by zero. That'll give you a solid idea of how much future sex is in store for you.

4. If I agree to be the breadwinner in the family, will you accept that sometimes I have to DO FUCKING WORK in order to win said bread?

Happens to some men out there. They get married, they get a job, they have a shitload of kids, and then wifey is on the phone at 2PM every day saying, "HEY, I NEED YOU TO COME HOME." Or, "Couldn't you take a day off or something?" Well, no. No, that isn't how it works. In order to live, we need MONEY. Which means we have to fucking work, sometime late! We're not out a titty bar. We're not golfing. We're really, truly, legitimately working. And we'll be right home, unless you delay our work by calling every ten fucking minutes.

5. Do you cook? Or clean? Are you mildly proficient in home economics?

Again, this question works for both sexes. Don't marry some lazy bitch (or asshole) who won't fucking do anything.

6. Have we broken up several times before?

Yes? Then you're going to end up getting fucking divorced.

7. Do you take any medication for depression, particularly manic depression? What happens if you don't take it?

Oh, I'll tell you what happens if they don't take it. Your severed penis in a recycling bin.

8. I'm going to do my damnedest to provide for you and our children. But I can't guarantee we'll ever be rich or anything. Is that good enough for you?

Because it isn't, for some ladies. Some ladies will expect you to become CEO of Prestige Worldwide by age 37. When I worked in advertising, I had a lunatic ex-girlfriend who constantly demanded that I try and find a job in finance. Avoid women like this, women who could give two shits about you following your passions and seeing where they lead. Women like that are horrid.

9. I like lots of sports and music and movies that you probably don't. Will you not try and get me to unlove those things?

In other words, do you want to marry me, or do you want to marry some wet dream version of me? Because I'll never be that fucking person. Marriage is acceptance. You either accept the person, warts and all, or you don't. If your girlfriend is going to marry you hoping you'll become some other person who doesn't listen to Slayer and jack off three times a day, you may as well let her ass down easy now.

10. Would you mind signing this?

It's something that you need to have because if she leave yo ass she gon leave with HALF.

What it all boils down to is if you're marrying someone who's as dedicated to YOUR happiness as you are to theirs. Because if it ain't even, then you're fucked. Forever. I'm sure I forgot millions more, including any and all questions about the history of the Baltimore Colts. Our commenters will fill you in.

No time to waste this week, everyone. We're a mere week away from THANKSFUCKINGIVING, and I'm about to blow my stuffing.

Just a couple weeks ago, we had a pre-Thanksgiving at my in-laws. Everyone came over early on Sunday afternoon. There were appetizers out on the table, including chips and beer and what not. And my wife's mom made meatloaf and two kinds of potatoes and all this cool shit. It wasn't quite Thanksgiving. But it was juuust close enough in resemblance to be fucking awesome, and to get me jazzed for the real deal. And there was football on. AND BEER. Best of all, there were grandparents around to look after the goddamn kids, so I could go watch football uninterrupted. If you have kids, you know how important having an extra pair of hands around is. I'd let Charles Manson into my home if he agreed to look after the kid for ten minutes. I tell you, it's BLISS.

Anyway, I highly recommend the pre-Thanksgiving to all of you with family close by. Now, onto the Jamboroo.

The Games
All games in the Jamboroo are evaluated for sheer watchability on a scale of 1 to 5 Throwgasms.

Five Throwgasms

Jets at Patriots: By now, the Belichick fourth down gamble has been dissected from every angle possible, and the consensus is that A) Mathematically speaking, he was right to go for it, and B) He did a shitty job burning timeouts prior to the play, leaving him unable to challenge the Faulk catch. So he made a good call, but he doesn't get completely off the hook for it. While I delight in any failure Belichick experiences in his life, it's sad to know that future coaches will encounter similar situations somewhere down the line, remember the heat Belichick took, and decide to punt the ball.

That blows, because there's nothing more exciting than plays like that one, where the coach decides to say FUCK IT and goes for the win. What Belichick did wasn't all that different from a coach deciding to go for two at the end of a game, instead of kicking the PAT to send the game into overtime. Tom Osborne did that eons ago against Miami in the 1984 Orange Bowl, and failed. Mike Tice and Mike Shanahan both did it in the NFL this decade, and succeeded (NOTE: Tice's call came in the midst of a losing season, with no playoff berth at stake). All three of those coaches, even Osborne, got respect for their decisions. Belichick is taking more heat, because he's an asshole. But I appreciate that asshole for making things pretty interesting. Too bad he'll be the last coach to ever try it.

This game is the best late game on Sunday. If you're like me, you enjoy falling asleep right around the half of any 4:15 game and waking up sometime shortly after the fourth quarter has started. There's nothing like that post nap feeling, where you wake up on the couch, and you're under a blanket, and everything is warm and comfy. It's a delight. You usually have to go piss, but you don't want to because you're so snug and happy. Sometimes, you fall BACK asleep, for the double nap. Double naps rule.

Sometimes, I fall asleep during the 4:15 game and wake up right during the local news update at the half, which completely confuses me. What happened? Is the game already over? Is it 11PM? WHAT YEAR IS THIS?!

Chargers at Broncos: You know who'd be a kickass phone sex operator? That Barefoot Contessa lady. Sure, she's an uppity Hamptons cunt, but she's definitely got that Kathleen Turner phone sex operator voice. FLINTY. Oh, I'll make outrageous brownies with you, all right.

Also, NO MORE BYE WEEKS! FUCK YEAH! We made it! Nothing but wall-to-wall sixteen game weekends for the next month and a half. Enjoy it everyone, because it always ends much sooner than you'd like. THE ONGOING MARCH OF TIME BLOWS.

Colts at Ravens: Rich Eisen called it two weeks ago. Ed Reed refuses to run back an interception without lateraling. It's awesome. He's the best lateraler the game has ever seen. Apologies to Frank Wycheck.

Four Throwgasms

Falcons at Giants: I keep seeing ads for Tori Amos' Christmas album. That is the world's most unlikely artist to ever release a Christmas album. Even a Cat Stevens Christmas album would be less surprising. I know Dylan has one out now, but that's NOTHING compared to the idea of Tori Amos doing a Christmas album. I swear the ads for it look like an SNL sketch. Here are some of the song titles from the album.

-"A Silent Night With You"
-"Candle: Conventry Carol"
-"Merry Christmas. I Was Raped."

Three Throwgasms

Titans at Texans: It's not completely insane to think the Titans could end up running the table. They could beat Indy and San Diego, the two toughest teams they have left. Chris Johnson is laying waste to everything in sight right now. And the defense is solid now that Cortland Finnegan is back. When he was out, the Titans lost three games by an average of 33 points. GOD BLESS THAT FEISTY LITTLE FRECKLED BLACK IRISHMAN.

Dolphins at Panthers: Winner gets to .500! Tonight! Neat!

49ers at Packers: I still don't know what Mike Singletary's job is in that Verizon ad. Is he trying to direct the mob? Because he's failing. NEIL PATRICK HARRIS JUST BLEW RIGHT BY YOU, GOD BOY.

Eagles at Bears: I said earlier this week that I get weirded out when people do cocaine in front of me. Know what else freaks me out? Coke pinkies. You know the ones. Those slimy guys who grow one pinky nail extra long so they can use it as a coke spoon? That's creepy as shit. Sometimes you see that coke pinky on a cab driver, and you know he's about to run twelve red lights.

Two Throwgasms

Redskins at Cowboys: The only thing more boring than when the Redskins lose is when they win. DC people are somewhat happy. No signs are confiscated. No one's threatening to jam a fork into Snyder's asshole. Everyone gets excited because Portis finally got hurt. BORING.

Earlier this year, Jay Mariotti, who is retarded, castigated Tony Romo for wearing his hat backwards. He considered this a sign that Romo took far too casual an attitude towards his performances. This is, of course, an idiotic line of reasoning. HOWEVER, it should be noted that, last week, after losing to Green Bay, Romo wore a newsboy cap to his press conference. I don't care if you're fucking Obama, seeing any man in a newsboy cap makes me want to kick them in the face.

Bills at Jaguars: Congratulations to Dick Jauron for winning this year's First Coach Fired pool. Now he can go back to being dead. Which team will exhume him for d-coordinator duties next year? You'll just have to find out!

Seahawks at Vikings: During the Lions-Vikings telecast last week, they cut to a lady in the stands holding up a sign that said YOU BRETTCHA. Guhhhhhhh. STOP MAKING ME ASHAMED TO LIKE MY OWN TEAM, YOU HARPY.

One Throwgasm

Steelers at Chiefs: The Steelers have allowed a return touchdown in seven straight games. HOLY SHIT!

By the way, it's nice to see that Ben Roethlisberger maintains the exact same haircut schedule I had in college. He shaves his head, then lets it grow out until he's got little hairwings sprouting up all underneath his hat, then he has his friend do the number 2 cut on him again. It's the biannual haircut schedule. It's getting long again now. You can see the wisps sticking out under his helmet. His mom is totally gonna make him cut it. I swear to you, in about a week or so, he'll shave it all off, and his mom will get mad and say, "Why can't you get a NORMAL haircut? At a damn barbershop? Why do you always let your friends butcher you like this?"

Bengals at Raiders: The Raiders play in one of those stadiums where somehow half the field is in scorching bright daylight all game long, and the other half is in pitch black, I-have-lost-all-depth-perception darkness all game long. Cincy's home field is that way, too. I swear, you could go blind watching games on TV played in these stadiums. One second, Ocho is running through the dark part of the field, then he cuts, and your eyes follow him, and BOOM! Your eyeballs melt into your fucking skull. We need more dome teams. We really do. This is far too much sunlight for my tastes.

Browns at Lions: There are a lot of GEICO ads on during these games, and they always end with the tag, "15 minutes could save you 15% or more on car insurance." Have you ever been on a phone with a company for fifteen minutes? It's anguish. Two minutes on hold, and I'm ready to throw the receiver against the fucking wall. It's so not worth saving 15% for that.

Saints at Bucs: From Mr. KOGOD comes the genius that is HIGHDEAS, the website that catalogs good ideas you have while you're high.

…Arby's specialize in Roast Beef sandwiches, Roast Beef, R B, Are Bee, Arby's, seriously I hope I blow at least 1000 minds with this one…

… i think it would be hella cool if people could slither around like a snake then when u lyin down on the couch after smokin and want sumfin but dont wanna get up u could just slither around…

…Wouldn't it be a great highDEA if Sarah Palin went parasailing and thereby and henceforth changed the name of the activity to be called "Parah sailin" forevermore?…

Indeed. When I used to get high, I used to think about smoking different foods. I envisioned finding a way to smoke chili, by wrapping it in cheesecloth bag and hanging it in a smokehouse. I was determined to have it canned and sell it and everything. AND I was going to make hot dog chili. Chili comprised entirely of hot dog meat. SMOKED.

I never really developed a business model for this. But it sounded AWESOME when I thought of it.

Cardinals at Rams

Pregame Song That Makes Me Want To Run Through A Goddamn Brick Wall

"Step Out," by Oasis. I hate the fact that I like Oasis. The Gallagher brothers are the two biggest assholes on Earth, without any charm to redeem them. They sample more than Diddy (The chorus to this song is lifted from "Uptight" by Stevie Wonder). And they haven't made a decent full album in 14 years. Also, they broke up for the millionth time this summer. They're immensely irritating people, and I hated them with every fiber of my being when "Wonderwall" hit back in the 90's. And yet, I'm now powerless to resist them. Everyone has a band they hated at first, and then came to obsess over. Oasis is mine. Stupid Noel and Liam. YOU RUINED PATSY KENSIT'S PERFECT BOOBS, LIAM.

Back when she was pregnant with our first kid, I took my wife to an Oasis show. It was so loud, she thought the sonic vibrations were going to cause her to have a miscarriage. She didn't, of course. But I like the idea of a band being loud enough to eject a fetus from my wife's body five months in advance. That would fucking rock.

Embarassing Album I Once Owned That Will Not Fire You Up

"Heart," by Heart. I had both this album and "Bad Animals," the one that had "Alone" on it. I remember when MTV used to count down the top 100 videos of all time. Every year, they'd switch up the top of the order just for shits and giggles. "Thriller" was usually #1, but I swear that there was a year when "These Dreams" took over the summit. That video looks retarded now. But back in the 80‘s, it was the coolest fucking thing I'd ever seen. HEXAGONAL DRUMS, PEOPLE. Still a good song.

There was a classical music station I used to listen to a long time ago. They used to play "Magic Man" every goddamn hour. I swear, that song is 35 minutes long. If you were unlucky, they'd also throw "Barracuda" into the mix with it. OOOOOH, BARRACUDA! I never need to hear those two songs ever again ever.

Open Mailbag Tuesdays
Got something you want displayed for show and tell in the Deadspin Tuesday Mailbag? Your debilitating cocaine addiction, perhaps? Email me any question or observation you like.

Fantasy Player That Deserves To Die A Slow, Painful Death
I have to put Maurice Jones-Drew here, because surely his kneel-down at the one cost at least one person out there a fantasy game. But MJD has been a monster all season long, and he only knelt at the one because Eddie Money ordered him to. So really, it's Del Rio that deserves your scorn if he cost you the game last week. Stupid Del Rio. YOUR BRILLIANT STRATEGY MAY HAVE COST PEOPLE LIVES, YOU FUCK.

It would have been spectacularly amusing if the Jags had ended up missing that winning field goal, or having it blocked. You'd fully expect that sort of thing to happen to Jack Del Rio. In fact, it's a bizarre world where Del Rio's controversial strategy prevails and Belichick's fails spectacularly.

Suicide Pick Of The Week
Last week's suicide pick of the Jets was incorrect, making me 8-2 on the year. That puts the Jets, Falcons, Bears, Colts, Eagles, Vikings, Texans, Ravens, Saints and Skins off the board now. We once again pick a team for your suicide pool and something that makes you WANT to commit suicide. This week's pick? Pittsburgh, and child car seats. They air ads now suggesting that all children must sit in booster car seats until they are 4'9". FOUR FOOT FUCKING NINE. There are Costases who never grow that high. It's completely out of control. I gotta keep a fucking booster seat in my car until my fucking kid is 15? And take it with us any time we travel? That's insane. I swear to you, 80% of your time being a dad consists of installing and uninstalling car seats. And adjusting the strap height, too. THE FUCKING BUCKLE ALWAYS FALLS INTO THE CREVICE. Stupid kids. Next time, I'm adopting an 18-year-old.

Nazi Shark's Vegas 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.

"This week, I like the Jets getting 10.5 points against New England on the road. I see Sarah Palin had a book come out this week. I like that lady. She embodies the hard-working, down home white folk that helped make America what it is today. Also, I'd finfuck her until her hair fell out."

2009 Nazi Shark Record: 6-4. Oooh, and check out KOGOD's link to the Fuck Yeah Sharks Tumblr. And Ufford has a link to NAZI DINOSAURS! NAZI FUCKING DINOSAURS! NAZI SHARK VS. NAZI DINOSAUR – WHO YA GOT?

This Week's Pants Party Winner
Last week's Pants Party winner was J. Mullins. He gets free rant space here:

I'm getting married on Nov. 14. As this posts I'm sitting on a beach in Mexico happy that I don't have to care if I can't watch the Bears get rolled by the Eagles Sunday. Fuck you Lovie Smith. And Jerry Angelo...some fucking talent this team has. Cutler might die b/c of this O-line. There's more holes in this Cover-2 than the number of f-bombs in a Jambaroo column. It's not a post Super Bowl loss hangover anymore...it's just pathetic. But at least I'm happily married. Now where's my turkey and pumpkin pie? Happy Thanksgiving to the rest of you assholes!

Awww, new love. He has NO FUCKING CLUE what's coming. This week's Pants Party winner was J. Ramirez. J. Ramirez, come and claim your prize. No, it's not permanent amnesty to the US. HEY-O!!!!

Great Moments In Poop History
Reader Dave chimes in with a story I call, "Poopy Hour":

A few years ago, I had gone out for a happy hour with some co-workers right after work, and then gone shopping for some clothes (rest assured, this is relevant). I had a few Guinnesses and your usual greasy bar fare. The next morning I had a bit of a hangover, but nothing that a cup of strong black coffee couldn't cure. I get into work, grab a cup of coffee and a bacon egg and cheese sandwich. After I finish, I sense the rumblings of a massive Guinness/Bar Grease/Coffee/Bacon shit in the pit of my stomach. I had nothing to read so I grab my Palm Pilot and proceed to the handicapped stall.

The shit's flowing nicely, I'm reading the news on my Palm when I drop it. It skids across to the next stall, and I get up fast with my pants still around my ankles to retrieve my Palm. Unbeknownst to me, a huge glop of shit had fallen on the floor when I got up. The back of my pants dropped right into that big glop of shit. Motherfucker!!

I carefully took them off and hung them up on the door. I emptied about half the toilet paper roll to clean up the shit on the floor and even from the tile grout. I put my pants back on carefully and started to clean them up with water and soap. This only sank the shit further into my pants. What made it worse was that a guy next to me was washing his hands and looking at me strangely. I just averted my eyes and kept cleaning my pants. They still stank, and I had a full day of work ahead of me. I remembered that I had bought some pants the night before and they were still sitting in the trunk of my car. I walked outside with my back to the wall so that no one could see the massive shit stain on my pants.

As soon as I walk out the door, there's about 10 people smoking and staring at my odd behavior. I ran to the parking garage got a pair of pants from the trunk of my car, ripped the labels off, sat crouched in the passenger seat, took off my dirty pants and boxers and sat down to change when all of a sudden something buzzed up against my ass, causing me to jump so high as to nearly knock myself out on the roof of my car. Turns out I left my fucking shaver (yeah I drive and shave) on the seat and sat on it, causing it to take a clump off my buttcheek hair. Finally, I got my new pants on, sans any underwear, sat back down on the fucking shaver once more causing it to buzz my ass again. I nearly fucking broke my window, cursing at everyone and anyone for how my day started.

Dude, never use an electric shaver. Ever.

Fire This Asshole!
Is there anything more exciting than a coach losing his job? All year long, we'll keep track of which coaches will almost certainly get fired at year's end or sooner. And now, your updated chopping block:

Tom Cable*
Jim Zorn
Eric Mangini
Jim Mora
Jeff Fisher
Dick Jauron – FIRED!
Todd Haley
Lovie Smith
Andy Reid
Mike McCarthy

We welcome Mike "Beaver" McCarthy to the chopping block a week too late. Still, despite beating Dallas, he belongs here for trying to challenge a call when he had no challenges left. And he wasn't penalized! You can get away with such things when Jeff Triplette is on duty.

Gametime Snack Of The Week

Cereal! I'm 33 years old, and I still put sugar on my cereal if it's not sweet enough for my liking. Rice Krispies. Corn Flakes. Plain Cheerios. I sugar all of those fuckers. At least two spoonfuls. The best part of it is when you finish the cereal, and you dredge the bottom of the bowl with your spoon, and there's some sugar left. You can see the little mound of it on the end of your spoon. That sugar is fucking delicious. Mmmmm, milky sugar.

Yes, I had a cavity filled last week. Why do you ask?

My mom used to give me those small travel boxes of Apple Jacks and other cereals with me to school. The variety packs you buy in the store for kids. You get about half a cup of cereal in those things. It's never enough.

Gametime Cheap Beer Of The Week

Tell! Official cheap beer of Switzerland! Reader Brad writes in:

Now that you have entered the international sphere for you cheap beer of the week, I nominate Coop brand beers. Coop is one of two major supermarket chains in Switzerland, and its beer selection is clearly superior to the competition. All of them are 50cl, or just bigger than your standard tall boy. My personal favorite was the Tell brand, promoting Swiss national hero William Tell.

When you are a college student studying abroad in Geneva, the world's most expensive city, getting drunk on the cheap is THE priority. A sixer of Tell would go for the equivalent of $4. They also had 80 proof liquors, branded as "Gin," "Vodka," and "Rum." Best part, they were normally mislabeled. It was like playing Russian roulette when buying handles. So the normal night consisted of downing a couple shots of mystery booze, a bottle of cooking wine ($1.50), and a sixer of Tell.

Geneva is also the place I became acquainted with the Backdraft shot. It involves the inhaling of alcohol vapor, which is a required part of hitting on 17-year-old Swiss lesbians in bars.

Let's see you find information that useful in a REAL travel guide. Suck it, Fodor! Also, I've been to Switzerland. Brad is right. Not only is it the most expensive place in the universe, it's also the dullest.

Robert Evans' MVP Watch!
Time to start thinking about who the leaders are for the NFL's MVP award. So every week, legendary Hollywood producer Robert Evans will join us to give us his assessment. Take it away, Mr. Evans.

"Baby, my favorite for the NFL's MVP this year is Peyton Manning of the Colts! All alone now! Cock of the walk! Top of the heap! Now, let me tell you about the time I had sex with Linda Evans on top of a mountain in Aspen back in '81. I had my Filipino assistant, Sammy, lay out a twelve-course meal at the top of the slope. Caviar? You bet! Antelope liver? Sure, why not. I also told the gondola operator to stop the ride midway up the mountain! When our little gondola froze in the middle of the night, Linda turned to me and said, ‘You planned this, didn't you, Evans?' And I said BABY, YOUR DAMN RIGHT EVANS DID. Let me tell you something, Evans and Evans made that gondola SWING that night! Damn near made the thing leap off the cable! By the time I gave the signal to start the ride again, we could have eaten fifty courses! That's Aspen in a nutshell for you. Glamorous? YOU KNOW IT! Sex in mid air with one of TV's great dames? Damn straight."

Sunday Afternoon Movie Of The Week For Browns Fans

Duplicity. I don't think I've ever seen a Julia Roberts movie where Julia Roberts doesn't play I character I want to knee in the tits.

Gratuitous Simpsons Quote
"Stupid fly! YOU GO SQUISH NOW!"

Halftime Masturbation Kit
-For the guys: KOGOD brings us this gallery of extreme body painting. (NSFWCC) It's nerd sexy.
-For the gals: Sexy Ryan Gosling. I fucked hated that Half Nelson movie.

Enjoy the games, everyone.

Time's a wasting. Let's get right to it.

Luke:

Fuck do you get off, Drew, urging women to ask future husbands if they've stopped doing cocaine? I mean, that's a nice one-thru-ten checklist for any guy planning to marry the chick YOU'VE already married, but come on, man. Don't fuck up some people's spots. It isn't wrong for a person to still occasionally be doing cocaine around the time they decide to get married.

Okay, here's my confession. I've never tried cocaine. Ever. And the three or four times I've seen people snort it in front of me, it made me completely uneasy. I blame Nancy Reagan.

I tend to be someone who has terrible control when it comes to mass consumption. I'll clean out all the booze in the fridge. I'll smoke all the weed. I'll inhale Bugles by the bagful. If it's in front of me, I consume all of it. It's just best for me to not expose my penchant for Hoovering everything in sight to the yayo, or the yamyam, or any other hard narcotic. Plus, I've had a friend or two get hooked on it and end up sitting in strip clubs on weekdays at 11AM. You never want to end up in strip clubs on weekdays at 11AM. So there you go. I do NOT rock.

Ill Wingo's Mandingo:

My girlfriend will occasionally leave a perfect little wad of toilet paper in the toilet without flushing. When I'm next on deck and see that little t.p. burrito, hanging out, minding it's own business, I have the same reaction every single time. IT'S ON!

I try to obliterate that little fucker, and crush him into a million pieces. Making him dance around the bowl, splitting him in half with every pass. It is one of the most fantastic parts of my day. Very therapeutic. Sometimes there are two, and if I'm REALLY lucky, three... They always get fucked. All of them. Not really a question, just looking for a co-sign.

That is all.

Yup, I do that too. I blast the shit out of it and watch the little shreds of TP go flying in the bowl. Plus, your urine sort of concentrates in that one area of the paper, so it gets that nice rich yellow coloring, much better than when it dilutes with the rest of the toilet water. It's even better if the TP still has a bit of shit on it, and you try and clean the shit off the paper by aiming right at it. Mrs. Drew hates it when I piss with paper still in the bowl, because it splashes back and gets all over the floor. But it's so worth it.

Secretly, and this is wrong, but if I'm stuck having to piss in a portapotty, and there's a giant mound of someone else's shit sitting five feet down the hole, I aim for it. I cut it right down to size. Like driving over a sand castle someone spent three hours working on.

Jon:

RE: Dribbling on khakis. When you think you are done (usually after the secondary stream which lasts for about a second), push the small area of your forward taint up. It works for me. And kinda tickles.

/presses taint

Hey, he's right! Also, speaking of ticklish, ever receive oral pleasure from someone and have it tickle your dick for the first millisecond? Just the initial contact. They start kissing your dick and you're all like WOOOOOOOOOO THAT TICKLES! Then, half a second later it goes away and you're like, okay, THIS FEELS GREAT NOW. CARRY ON.

Shareef:

I don't live in New York City, but I frequent it often on the weekends, as most of my friends live there. This past Friday night started like many others, a nice pregame with a couple of friends followed by bar hopping around town. As we're leaving a bar around 2 in the morning, I skip out thirty seconds before everyone else to bum a cigarette from a couple random heads, a preemptive strike if you will. My friends come out, see me procuring a cigarette, say, "that's where you were," and before I can even light my cigarette they've already walked down the street, without saying a word. Mind you, I have no idea where they're going.

When I do finally get the cigarette lit and start walking down the street in their direction, I have no idea where they've gone. I find out its a club and they're already in. I call them to let them know I'm outside so we can go somewhere else.

At this point in time they tell me to just wait in line, I'm not very happy, but I'm sleeping on one of their couches, so I'm at their mercy. My question to you is this: was this wrong of them?

I say yes, because you clearly weren't going to be long. HOWEVER, there is nothing worse than having stragglers in your group. You make the collective decision to leave the bar and go somewhere else, and there's always, without fail, one or two friends who still have a full drink to finish, or they have to make a call, or they're chatting with the bartender, or they have to smoke a fucking cigarette. Sometimes, you get tired of waiting for straggler friends and you just go FUCK IT, WE'RE GOING. Otherwise, you never end up going anywhere. This happens at every bachelor party. Getting 12 men to leave one place simultaneously is like building a goddamn pyramid.

Ben:

Mondays are better to take off than Fridays. Think about it: which is a better day in the office? Friday, when everyone is in a good mood, half the office is usually out for the day/leaving early, and you can dress casually? Or Monday, when everyone is grumpy, everyone is in, and you have to dress normally? It's not even close.

Fair point. But ever have those Fridays where you really DO have to do work? It's horrible. I hated getting new assignments on Fridays. What? You want me to do real WORK? Fuck that. I'm only here for posterity today. And if someone ever gives you work at 4PM on Friday, or a client calls at 4PM that day (and they always do), you are free to curse their genitals. Assholes.

Phil:

What is the appropriate etiquette when you call a girl for a first date and she screens the call and doesn't pick up? Leave a message and risk pulling a Jon Favreau from Swingers? Text message and look like a passive pussy that probably orders daiquiris on a first date? Hang up and try back later? Email a married guy from a sports blog and wait for the answer? I have tried all of these and feel like a dbag each and every time. I fucking hate girls.

Prepare and rehearse a very brief message in advance to leave if she doesn't pick up the first time you call. "Hey Lindsay, it's Phil. I was calling to see if you wanted to grab a bite to eat on Friday night. Lemme know. Take care." Done. Don't be cute. Don't try and make jokes to a fucking voice mail. Just get the basic info she needs to know out and leave it. She'll call back if she's down. They always do. DON'T hang up and call back. Ever. Call once and leave it like chicken on the grill.

Bobby Big Wheel:

Has anyone tried making a guide to hooking up at weddings, based on the collective wisdom of the Commentariat?

What's there to guide you through? Everyone's drunk and horny. Just scope the room, find a worthy companion for the night, and introduce yourself. Hit the dance floor, get drunk at the after party, then go back to your room and fuck like deer.

ElegantSlim:

Since when can I only get Goobers at the movies? I love those little peanut dingleberries but I can't remember the last time I saw them in a bodega. When can Goobers break from the capitalist talons of the Regal Cinema Group?

Raisinets and Sno Caps, too! Know where you can buy them retail? Blockbuster Video. Find the last one standing in America. They have all the movie candy.

AJ (not the DS one):

Last week I was watching CNN at a pizza shop as I was waiting to pick up my lunch order and noticed one of the scrolls across the bottom of the screen.

BOYZ II MEN SINGER HAS H1N1 VIRUS

Apparently they are still relevant enough to catch swine flu and make the news.

NOT NATHAN!

Adam:

Just noticed that the two players who will replace the injured Cowboys starters this week are Free and Ball.

Delightful.

CC:

Where would be the best place to take a shit when I can't use a toilet?

The ocean. I took a dump in Long Island Sound once with my friend swimming fifty feet away. He then ratted me out to my wife, saying, "Hey, do you know what Drew just did? HE SHIT IN THE SOUND!" My friends are lame. Sellout!

Alex:

My personal laptop's hard drive recently crashed. I'm unable to even get to the log-in screen. I'm in the middle of ordering a new computer, but have had to bring my work laptop home with me every night just to have some form of internet access. During the evening, before I go to bed, I enjoy a good masturbation session like most single men. Since my personal laptop is unable to function properly, I've had to go with my work laptop for my porn access.

I'm a consultant, so I'm traveling a lot with my computer. My roommate is a consultant as well, and he claims that when he is traveling, that he uses his work laptop for porn as well. He's trying to convince me to not worry and that the majority of consulting companies don't bother with monitoring your internet activity when you're not in the office.

I use Google Incognito, but this still makes me very uneasy every time I come in to work the next morning. I keep on expecting to see an email of death from HR saying I've been terminated. Any advice?

And yet, such is your horniness that the threat of termination hasn't yet stopped you from using your work computer to look at Redtube. That's men in a nutshell. Anything for a nut. You're a consultant, so you have money, so get a new personal laptop. Then you can jack it guilt free. Everyone who does NOT work in IT assumes there's one guy in IT who is watching your browser at all times, just waiting for you to log on to porn so he can nail you. That's always the fear you live with as a chronic masturbator. You have nightmares about being fired WHILE you're also jacking it. It's quite a mental stunt. Way back when, I used to pull Tera Patrick vids off of Limewire while at work. That was probably a bad idea.

I bet most employers have a porn threshold. They don't care if you look for ten minutes a day. But if you're looking at it eight hours a day, AND you have an open cube, you are SO fucking fired.

Chaz:

What is your policy regarding sanitary toilet seat covers? If you are in a public setting, do you use these if available? If not available, do you improvise with toilet paper strips or just through caution to the wind?

I never use them. I'm usually the person whose bowel movements prompt others to use such items. They're designed to protect you from people like me. Also, I can never get them to stay on the toilet. I use them with my kid, and they always end up falling in before I can get the kid's ass on it.

Hit Bull Win Steak:

A co-worker and I were having a debate about normal (i.e. non-handicapped) people crapping in the handicapped stall at work. He contends that this is no different than you parking in the handicapped parking space in a parking lot, and that you're an asshole for doing so. I called "bullshit" on this. Citing the allure of the bigger stall, the fact that the duration of the average crap is much shorter than that of when you park, and also the complete lack of handicapped people in the office. Please help us settle this.

Your coworker is WRONG. It's not fucking illegal to use a handicapped stall if you aren't handicapped, is it? They won't tow you away mid-shit if you use it, right? CHECK AND FUCKING MATE.

I like the handicapped stall. The toilet's higher. Better for my back.

Jordan:

I edit a Christian webmagazine, and I've pondered asking you if I could somehow syndicate your columns.

That's probably a bad idea.

Cam:

What hot sauce do you fancy? I particularly go for Sriacha, a Chinese chili sauce. I put that shit on just about everything imaginable. I'm waiting for an ulcer the size of Alaska any day now (topped with all the booze and pot, I'm going to be one well rounded individual in the years to come).

I use Frank's Red Hot. If they don't have that at the store, I use Texas Pete. I'm not all that wild about Tobasco. More then five drops of Tobasco on anything, and your tongue goes fucking limp. You can pour a gallon of Red Hot on anything and still live.

Stan:

What are the chances you "accidentally" come across Levi Johnston's nudie pics when they leak, you hairy bear? I would say I'm a mortal lock to "come across them" at some point during my naked couch surfing.

Whatever, gayboy. I come across enough penises while doing the women's portion of the Halftime Masturbation Kit. No Alaska dong for me.

Brian:

I started sitting down to pee. It is silent, accurate, and relaxing but is it gay?

Nah, if that's your thing. My wife begs me to pee sitting down, because I'll go to pee in the middle of the night and just spray all over the place. Really paint the walls type business. Ever hit the toilet rim and shit goes spraying twenty feet in every direction? And you have to wipe your legs off and all that shit? Terrible. Anyway, it's a moot point, because my thighs are too fat for me to pee sitting down adequately. That pretty much tells you all you need to know about my physique.

Andy:

I was reading your open mailbag article and thought I might have a piece of information that some of your reading public might enjoy. Wild Turkeys are 100% Grade A greasy dark meat. No Shit. Kill yourself a wild turkey and reap the benefits of throwing the fact that you are more man than all of your weak ass in-laws combined, and all the dark meat you would need.

Oooh, like duck and goose?

Exactly.

Oh, I'm all over that. TIME TO KILL.

Ryan:

With the holiday season fast approaching, I'm planning on being back home around old friends, some of whom I haven't seen in quite some time. I'm at the age where lots of these guys are getting married, having/thinking of having kids, etc. I know how annoying it is having to give the same mini-update on your life 100 different times to aunts and uncles and grandparents, and I don't want to be a source of that for my friends. My question is, what are more enjoyable, universal topics of conversation for the holidays?

1. Football
2. Movies
3. TV
4. Weather
1,231. Politics

Brody:

I went to the University of Miami and the biggest d'bag fans are the ones who WENT to the school. I grew up in South Florida as a Canes fan through the glory years, the probation years, then the rebirth and started school there for the 2001 National Championship year.

The U is full of self-tanned New York and Jersey trash who only go there to party on South Beach and spend daddy's money. They couldn't give two shits about the football team unless they're playing FSU or some other glory program, and that's just because there's more of a chance to date rape the girls who go. One loss and no one shows up, they're busy taking their bedazzled shirts off at Space until 6 am.

I have no reply for this. I just liked it.

Ted:

You are more of a dumbass than i thought....the offensive line is what makes mediocre teams great. Being able to run the ball when there is 2 feet of snow makes a team great yor dumb asshole. What allows you to have a successful running game? Since you obviously have no knowledge of the game of football let me tell you.....offensive lineman. Go drown yourself in your cases of beer and stop making idiotic statements about something you have no knowledge of. Let me guess you were one of those guys who quit football in high school because they sucked...i mean "the coaches hated me" kinds of guys. quitter.

Pfft. The coaches didn't hate me. They have to notice you to hate you.

D. Chuck:

Why the fuck can't I keep my button down shirt tucked into my pants? I slouch more than probably anyone, so that may be the reason. But can't we just make all pants have holes in your pockets so you can tug your shirt down into your pants, like rental tuxedo pants have? I don't like having to shove my hand down my pants in public for any other reason than "The high school cheerleaders are over there, let's give it a quick jerk."

I concur. I can't keep my shirt tucked in for longer than five minutes. I sit down, I stand back up, and it's all over. Annoying. And whenever you tuck back in, you just stuff that shit down, and it pops right back out. To get a proper tuck in, you have to undo your pants and make sure the bottom of the shirt is smooth against your underwear. Most every button down shirt you buy has extra buttons sewn at the bottom. If they had little loops on the side of your pants where you could button the flap, it might help.

This is why I don't wear clothing unless necessary.

Adam:

You are a single man going on a date with an attractive woman. You are going to a restaurant and have a reasonable expectation of amorous activity.

What is the proper meal to choose to avoid any gastro-related fuckups between paying the bill, having a nightcap, and hitting the sack? Obviously, you have to consider the type of restaurant, the portion, the effect on your bowels, and not looking like a pussy with your order. Yes, my bathroom is adjacent to my bedroom, why do you ask?

White and brown food. Steak and potatoes. Any food that had bold colors – fiery red tomatoes, leafy greens – that's just asking for a Fiesta Melt in your toilet.

Olaf:

I live in a middle class neighborhood in suburban Minneapolis (btw, it's true that the heavy stuff ain't quite at its heaviest). Anyway, my house and all the others on my block are on an alley. It is standard practice for everyone on the alley to leave their garbage cans right on the alley all week. My wife and I have the smallest garbage bin allowed because it's just the two of us and she is a compulsive recycler, so we don't have much trash anyway.

Twice in the last 5 weeks, I've taken our garbage out to the alley on Tuesday night and found that someone had already placed several garbage bags in our small bin. Our garbage would barely fit and I ran the risk of being fined for an over-full garbage. The first time it happened, I chalked it up as a random act of douchebaggery. This week, I was filled with a murderous rage.

As I was standing by my garbage can simmering with rage, I started to wonder what I'd do if I actually caught someone doing this a third time. I think the very least I would do is unleash an semi-Earl Weaveresque profanity and spittle laced tirade and then file trespassing charges - even if the person were an 80 year old lady. My other idea was to pummel the person with a claw hammer.

My question is: am I overreacting to this? My take is that anyone who would repeatedly do this kind of thing is such a massive fuckface that they deserve some fairly severe retribution (maybe being assaulted with a claw hammer is a bit overboard, but still). Or am I the asshole for getting so angry about this? Thanks.

I say it's a dick move to repeatedly hog someone else's trash can space. But you're like me. I'm a total old man now. If someone drives too quick through our neighborhood, or puts their shit in my garbage, I get all mad, THEN I get mad at myself for acting like an old tightass. It's always more fun to be the person ruining shit than being the person who has their shit ruined. Adulthood BLOWS.

Mr. Bean

Nate:

In the 4th grade, I was playing for a baseball league in which the coaches pitched, but against the opposing side. I suppose this was to make things "fair." Generally, all the coaches threw what I estimate were 50mph fastballs in various locations and would not play defense after the pitch.

Our team wasn't that great, but we weren't the Bad News Bears either. About halfway through the season, we are playing a game at our home field. I believe it was the top of the 4th inning when one of these 9-year-olds who was about 5 foot 5 inches and 140 pounds already hit a triple. The next kid was barely able to bunt, but he did. Our first baseman charged the bunt and threw the ball to the catcher, who was subsequently absolutely LEVELED by Yeti 9-year-old guy. Probably a little over the top for this league, but everyone came out unscathed, more or less.

Fast forward to the top the 6th inning, and John Kruk, Jr. is up to bat again. My coach sizes him up and then beans him. Not a brush-back pitch, not something that "got away from him," an absolute beaning. The kid is writhing in agony and screaming bloody murder. Turns out that my coach actually BROKE HIS RIB, with malice and aforethought.

Our team's parents all gathered around after the ambulance left and decided that none of us would be playing for this team for the rest of the season.

/end of my baseball career

Coach Coughlin likes the cut of this guy's jib

David:

Being D-III we didn't have big travel budgets so we took a bus. We played a small school in central Iowa. After the game HC allowed anyone with family in attendance to eat with them and then catch up with the team later. The only rule was that they had to be back at the hotel before 7pm (the time the bus left). Well, this trip we lost and HC was pissed.. over the course of dinner he only got madder and before we had finished eating he decided he was sick of us and it was time to go. We left at 6:30ish... I'm sure you can see what happened. We left a running back in Iowa with his grandma who was from the area. The kid had to fly back. When the RB got back the coach screamed at him about missing the bus and he (the HC) couldn't be responsible for that sort of shit.

Here and on! Brown and out!

Matt:

I was on a Little League team that had five, count 'em FIVE, coaches for a roster of twelve kids ages 9 thru 12. Our tyrannical "manager" would conduct 6 practices a week until the season started and then would sometimes hold practice after games if we didn't meet his expectations.

Before every practice roll call was taken. We would all line up in alphabetical order and he would call out our names. There were only two responses he wanted to hear. "Here!" or preferably "Here and on!" If you said "Here", you would be running laps all practice. If you said "Here and on", one of his lackey assistants would hit you in the balls with the handle end of a baseball bat in order to see if you were telling the truth about being "on," aka wearing your cup.

The very first practice we got the message. The first kid called said "Here and on" because he didn't want to run and paid for it with a shot to the nuts. Every day for an entire season I was subjected to the humiliation of a grown man whacking me in the cup with the knob of a baseball bat.

Best dad in the world?

Anonymous:

There were rumors of Coach's infidelity before I even knew what the word meant. There were rumors of him sleeping with this teacher or that person's wife or whatever.

However, once the truth came to light, we found out that Coach took things to a whole other level of assholishness. Coach was boning a sophomore girl. He was caught by the night janitor after football practice.

During the discovery process of his trial, more than 150 current or former students came forth to testify that Coach had sexually harassed them in some way, shape or form. What's even neater is that some of the harassments had been covered up by the school's principal and athletic director. He was convicted and sentenced to prison where he served four years.

One other caveat, this whole sex scandal happened during Coach's oldest son's senior year. Coach's son also happened to be the starting quarterback and, somehow, a heck of a nice kid. Thanks for the graduation gift, Dad.

But you didn't get to practice the Gatorade bath?

Anonymous:

Our first game ended in a tie. Big Asshole coach brought a dictionary to our next practice and had each kid read the definition of "tie" out loud and passed the Webster's to the next kid. We did this until the Webster's was no longer needed and we could recite the definition without using the dictionary. He also made a kid take off his Washington Redskins sweatshirt and spit and stomp on it since we were playing a team of 10/11 year olds called the Redskins.

Mid-season I had to leave early from practice since I had a religious class to go to. One of those classes your parents sign you up for and you have to go. My mom was in charge of driving me and another kid to class. This other kid was not on the team and my mom sent him to the practice field to come get me. Little asshole chased him away coach saying "this field is for football players." I went to Big Asshole and told him I was leaving for a class at church. He blew his whistle and told the team to circle around me. He tells the team I am leaving practice early to go to church. He then asks me "make a decision right now! Football....or God?" I did not know what the fuck was going on. I told him "that ain't hard" and left.

Finally, our season culminated in a championship game between the only unbeaten teams in the league. The final week of practice Big Asshole coach made us practice carrying him off the field. He said "This is what you guys are going to do to me when we win Saturday." Each day after practice it was "see if you can carry me farther than you did yesterday." The very last practice we manage to carry him 20 yards before we collapse.

Let that tussin soak in

Jeremy:

While spending a prominent amount of time on the sideline, I overheard coach tell my best friend in a critical (as critical as a junior high football game could be) moment of the fourth quarter he would be fine and was sent back in. To my horror, my friend clearly had a bone protruding from his forearm. This friend's family was out of town at the time, so rather than help the kid or you know, bring him to the ER, coach told him to soak it in a mixture of ice water and salt.

50 HOT ONES COMIN' AT YA!

Matt:

Our fielding practices started with taking ground balls without our gloves (and I'm not talking about gently rolling the ball) after which we'd take our positions and go through a regular "infield". His son was at third base and the first ball hit to him went right threw his legs, enraged coach hit another ball except this time it was twice as hard and he jumped out of the way. Now he was really pissed at the words that came out of his mouth will never be forgotten by anyone on that field. "FIFTY HOT ONES COMING AT YA!"

He proceeded to take a full bucket of balls and hit screaming one hoppers and line drives at his defenseless son at third base. He tried to deflect the first few but they were coming too hard and fast. All he could do was curl up into a fetal position as balls whizzed by his head and occasionally ricocheted off various parts of his body. We all stood and watched frozen with fear as this homicidal manic our parents trusted to teach and nurture drilled deadly weapons at his son. Now you may think this would be considered child abuse but this was the 80's and you'd have to drag your kid behind your car in front of a police station and maybe someone would say something.

Amazingly before the season started the returning parents tried to get him kicked out of the league but MY father stood up and basically said "Do you want your boys to grow up to be pussies". So if anyone ever yells "FIFTY HOT ONES COMING AT YOU!" run fast and far away.

Oh, now that's clearly not true. Shame on you, Bob

Bob:

John Wooden raped me. Twice.

It's practically a ritual these days to be skeptical about marriage if you're a guy. You hear comedians and columnists and God knows who else bitching about being tied to one woman, yearning to be free to drink and ogle ass as they please. Almost all of that is an exaggeration. I may goof on being married from time to time, but I'd rather be chopped in half with a machete than NOT be married to my wife. That would be horrible and shitty.

But women. How many women do you know that rushed into getting married because all their friends were all getting married at the same time, only to later find out that their husband is actually kind of a dipshit? Because all guys are conditioned to be skeptical about marriage, because we're trained to be reluctant about the whole enterprise, we're 21% choosier about whom we end up marrying. I just made that stat up. It felt right. All of my wife's friends are married. Only half of mine are. Sure, I only have two friends, but I'm not letting that stand in the way of my gross generalization.

Some women, in their haste, end up getting the short end of the marrying stick. I don't want that happening to you, female Deadspin readers. I don't want you screwing up your life by accidentally marrying Daulerio. I don't want you suffering from Betty Draper Syndrome, wherein your husband gets to go to work and go out to dinner and travel and fuck around and have fun while you sit at home seething for 23 hours a day with the kids, hating and resenting your man in equal measure. I've seen it happen. Here now, are ten questions you should ask ANY man before you agree to marrying his hairy, sweaty ass.

1. "Do you want definitively want children?"

You'd be shocked at how many people get married without agreeing on the kid question. You are a fucking idiot, man or woman, if you get married without resolving this issue. And if you want kids, ladies, make sure your guy answers YES without qualifications. None of this, "I think so," shit. Tie that fucker down and make him give you a proper answer.

2. "Do you want multiple children?'

Same deal. If you have one kid, you don't have children. You have a pet. One child is NOTHING. After two kids, all final child tallies can be negotiated WHILE married. But not the second kid.

3. "Do you want a dog?'

Because if you want one and he doesn't, he will end up wanting to choke that thing to fucking death.

4. "Will you help with the kids?"

Will you change the diapers, and feed them, and mouthrape them with the toothbrush before bed every night?

5. "No, I mean it. WILL YOU FUCKING HELP WITH THESE KIDS?"

That means getting up at night to feed them if you bottle feed, and changing the sheets when the diaper leaks, and putting together the crib, and all that shit. I've got parenting magazines lying around all over the place, and every issue has some article featuring confidential gripes from women about all the ways their husbands are negligent scumbags. "He was so nice when we first got married, but now he won't do ANYTHING!" These deadbeats are ruining it for the rest of us husbandfolk. FUCKERS. Gonna spend your life with a guy? Make sure he will get his ass out of bed at night for the fucking kid. Especially if he works an office job during the day. Office jobs are a cakewalk compared to staying at home with a kid, or worse, working during the day and then taking care of the kid at night all by yourself because you're husband doesn't want to help. Make sure the fucker will help. Make him sign a fucking waiver if you have to. Unless he works in a coal mine during the day, he's got the energy.

6. "Have you had any major dental work done?"

Is your fiance gonna need 10 new bridges for $2,000 a pop in the next decade? Jesus, that blows. That means your kid will have retarded teeth you have to pay to fix, too. That's drinking money! In fact, check his entire medical history and his family's medical history. Have all his male relatives died before the age of 45? THEN HE WON'T BE ABLE TO HELP WITH THOSE FUCKING KIDS.

7. "If you don't bother me about frequency of intercourse, I'll look the other way with regards to your Fuck Yeah Tumblr habit. Fair?"

It's fair, for you men out there. Take the deal.

8. "Will you have sex with other people?"

Because that would be bad.

9. "Are you still doing cocaine?"

No? He's lying! CHECK INSIDE HIS SPEAKERS!

10. "Do you lose more than $500 a year gambling?"

When I first got married, my wife and I were thinking about combining bank accounts. I asked my father-in-law if it was a good idea to keep separate bank accounts. "Sure," he said, "If you want to get divorced." Indeed. Make sure that fucker is financially transparent. You don't want him gambling your shit away, or hiding thousands in an escrow account he can easily access once he's fled to the Caymans with the nanny.

We men are not such bad people, ladies. But you have to vet our asses before you agree to spending the rest of your life with us. It's not our fault if you elected to marry us before you realized we like drinking before 8AM every day. You have no one to blame but yourself. Do your homework. Or else, you'll end up in divorce court, staring daggers at Norm Chad from across the room. DON'T MARRY A JACKASS.

This is a very brief message to a very specific set of individuals, namely junior high school, high school and college offensive linemen. Do you play offensive line? Stop. STOP. Quit. Give up. Unless you're good enough to get a free ride and/or a pro contract, you shouldn't play offensive line. Ever. You should demand a position switch to defensive line, or you should quit football and play something else that's fun and awesome.

I don't need to tell you that offensive line is the right field of football positions. You get thrown there if you're too fat and slow to play any other position. And yet, countless newbie offensive linemen in America are being brainwashed by coaches as we speak. Hoodwinked. Bamboozled. These coaches are telling them that playing offensive line is awesome. When you play o-line, all coaches feed you the same line of bullshit about why what you do is so cool:

1. "You get to hit someone on every play!"

This is somewhat true, but you don't get to TACKLE anyone. If you're lucky, you get to catch someone napping and pancake the shit out of them. Otherwise, you don't get to hit people. You get to PUSH them. Or attempt to push them, only to slide off their bodies and fall awkwardly to the ground, at which point your hands get cleated. You don't get to hit someone, wrap your arms around them, and throw them to the turf like the bastards that they are. THAT is satisfying. Blocking people is not.

2. "You are the heart and soul of this team!"

Again, LIES. The one crazy freak athlete you had on your high school team (and most every high school team has one) who would return five punts a game for TD's? THAT guy was the heart and soul of the team. You are interchangeable assholes.

3. "The offensive line is a brotherhood."

Big deal. So is the Lion's Club. At least I won't lose a fingernail when I join their outfit.

Young athletes of today, I'm here today to tell you that offensive is the least enjoyable, least gratifying position in any sport ever. Even the right fielder gets to bat. At least hockey goalies get cool masks. Offensive linemen do nothing cool. You would never play offensive line recreationally. Ever. It blows. There's a reason wide receivers always have to be reminded to block, and that's because blocking is boring and shitty. You can't fully use your hands if you're an o-lineman, which makes you the lone football player who has to act like a soccer player. You never get to touch the ball, or score. You never get to sack the QB. All you get to do is push people, or blow your assignment and get yelled at. You are the fucking extra in the movie.

Many offensive linemen are conditioned to sneer at skill position players, calling them prima donnas and glory hogs. This is because skill position players get to have fun. SHITLOADS OF FUN. If you were a gifted athlete, and you could play guard and quarterback with equal skill, which position would you prefer to play? It's not even a debate. I have no evidence to back this up, but IT'S A FACT: 95% of all offensive linemen, professional or not, don't like playing offensive line.

I am biased here, of course, because I played offensive line for ten years, and I sucked at it. Sucked HARD. I do not know why I played for so long. I really don't. I never played. I rode the bench the whole time. I liked the idea of being a football player than I did actually playing the game, and that's never good. I quit my college football team before my senior year, and my senior year was a GLORIOUS affair, filled with beer and Mario64 and actual hooking up with girls. No more three-hour practices for me! I've got boobs to fondle! I spent my entire senior year pissed at myself that I didn't quit playing football sooner. Now I've got two back surgeries to my name, and I look like an asshole when I walk.

Now, maybe some of you young offensive lineman out there really love it, and are truly passionate about playing the position. My congratulations to all three of you. For the rest of you stuck playing offensive line, QUIT. You aren't a pussy if you quit. You aren't letting your team down. You are walking away from playing a position whose crushed-fingers-to-fun ratio is off the fucking charts. Give it up. Go play soccer, or rugby, or some other sport where you get to run around, have fun, and do cool stuff. Or play NO sports at all. Smoke weed. Did you know I didn't start smoking weed regularly until senior year? IDIOT! HOW COULD I BE THAT SHORT-SIGHTED? Weed is awesome!

Don't make the same mistake I did. Don't spend every fall of your youth trapped on a soaking wet field doing duck walk drills and foot chopping exercises. Offensive line is the chain gang of sports. You are in a PRISON. Quit. Leave. ESCAPE. Go enjoy yourself. LIVE, DAMMIT! Don't waste away on an offensive line. It's totally for suckers.

The Games
All games in the Jamboroo are evaluated for sheer watchability on a scale of 1 to 5 Throwgasms.

Five Throwgasms

Pats at Colts: The day he retires, shouldn't the Colts fire whoever is their head coach and just make Peyton the head coach? He's more prepared than 98% of the league's coaches. The guy is a fucking savant. He could engineer Russian nuclear missile subs at this point. Hell, he's already the de facto head coach of this Indy team. At the very least, I'd hire him to be an offensive coordinator immediately. I'm telling you, you may as well quit fighting against having Peyton Manning as a constant fixture in your NFL viewing life. He'll be around forever.

Bengals at Steelers: I was watching the 5,000 ads for that Droid phone they keep pimping during games, and I noticed that, in the legal copy, there was this disclaimer:

"DROID is a registered trademark of LucasFilm Ltd."

So, Verizon paid George Lucas untold shitloads of cash for the right to name their phone the Droid. I'm always in favor of someone taking money from Verizon, but that's amazing. George Lucas is such a cash whore, he trademarked a single fucking word and made a mint off of it. He didn't even have to lift a finger, or create some sort of CG jive-talking eel to do it. I don't whether to be in awe, or to go spit on the fucker's house.

Four Throwgasms

Eagles at Chargers: I bought my wife "Twilight" for her birthday. Big mistake. HUGE mistake.

Three Throwgasms

Bears at 49ers: It's your Thursday Night game with Matt Millen. GAHHHHH MATT MILLEN NOOOOOOO! I've heard Millen call a couple college games this year. He's been okay, I guess. But still, you sit there listening to him, and the whole time, your brain is saying, "HOLY FUCK. IT'S MATT MILLEN, THE LOSINGEST LOSER IN THE HISTORY OF LOSING. AND THEY'RE PAYING HIM TO TALK! WHAT THE FUCK?" It's weird. It's distracting. It's like he broadcasts the entire game with his dick sticking out of his fly.

By the way, NFL scholar and very serious person Gregg Easterbrook wrote this week that the 49ers are now losing because they signed Michael Crabtree.

Beware the Crabtree Curse! San Francisco opened the season 3-1, with its sole loss to powerhouse Minnesota on the game's final snap. Since signing Michael Crabtree, San Francisco has lost four straight — the Niners just rolled over at home against the Titans, who came into the contest 1-6. Coach Mike Singletary had San Francisco's players buying into the notion that no one's bigger than the team. Then, suddenly, you can jerk San Francisco around all you want and get $17 million guaranteed as your reward. San Francisco management's cave-in to the me-first Crabtree triggered an instant losing streak, by communicating to other 49ers the message that the team-first stuff was always just empty talk. Caving in to Crabtree may cost the Niners their season.

Really, Gregg? Does Michael Crabtree play quarterback? Or defense? Because the 49ers are horrible at defense, particularly pass defense. What should the Niners have done, Gregg? NOT signed Crabtree at a reasonable level and lose their draft pick? When Crabtree decided to end his holdout because he desperately WANTED to play? And how were the 49ers abandoning team-first principles when they refused to capitulate to the high salary demands of an individual player? Isn't making sure you sign a talented player without busting your cap EXACTLY a team-first thing to do? And isn't it a smart, team-first move to welcome the guy with open arms, rather than treating him like a fucking leper and holding an endless grudge when he arrives? Oh my God, paying a player $17 million RUINS chemistry! Payroll discrepancies never happen on other NFL teams!

Easterbrook says Crabtree ruined the 49ers with "waves of negativity". OH NO! THE NEGATIVE WAVES! I CAN'T SEE THEM, BUT THEY'RE DISRUPTING OUR PRECIOUS AURAS!

Keep in mind: Gregg Easterbrook has used his column to urge everyone to go to church, and to urge people to never leave the house after midnight because bad things happen. Also, he plays poker with Nazi Shark twice a week. He's a fucking idiot. And verily the Dick Joke God chortled at that pretentious dicksmack.

Falcons at Panthers: Thanks God Mike Smith punched someone. Now he finally has a distinguishing characteristic. Mike Smith? Who? Oh, you mean the Mike Smith who tried to punch out DeAngelo Hall? Oh, he's cool.

Cowboys at Packers

Two Throwgasms

Seahawks at Cardinals: YOU WEREN'T MAN ENOUGH, KEN WHISENHUNT. For real, Anquan Boldin played for the Cardinals with STEEL PLATES IN HIS FUCKING FACE, and no one can bother to tell him he's been deactivated? That's semi-Haleyesque.

Jaguars at Jets: Before we get to this week's poop story below, a quick one of my own. I had to wake up to feed my kid at 6AM earlier this week. I got up and got out of bed. It was still dark outside. I went downstairs to make the bottle, and I fed my kid. All in the dark. Before I got back into bed, I realized I had to take a shit badly. So I head to the john, fart, and sit down to take a shit. I got up and put my boxers back on. They were wet all in the bottom, which was weird. I figured I pissed on them somehow, so I chucked them in the hamper, threw on a new pair, and went back to bed.

One hour later, I wake up and it's light outside. I go to the bathroom. There's liquid SHIT all over the bathroom floor. I freak. I run to the hamper and check the boxers I removed. They're drenched in liquid poop. I check the sheets. Poop. Poopy water everywhere, and I have no idea how it happened. I sat down to shit. My asshole was centered over the toilet. How did all this poopy water get all over the place?

So I'm sitting there later that night, eating dinner with the Mrs. When suddenly, in the middle of the meal, I cry out:

THE FART! I MUST HAVE SHIT STANDING UP WHILE FARTING! IT ALL MAKES SENSE NOW! I AM MONK!

She never finished dinner. Oh, and that story reminds me of the Jaguars.

Bills at Titans

One Throwgasm

Saints at Rams: Okay, so our Asshole Coach Digest got off to a rocky start with this whole Pat Murphy fiasco. But I'll be damned if I give up on a good idea. This week, we got flooded with story after story from poor souls who were terrorized in their youth by asshole, scumbag coaches WHO WILL REMAIN NAMELESS FROM NOW ON AND WERE DEFINITELY NOT PAT MURPHY, WHO IS A LOVELY MAN. Here's one example, from Nick:

Middle School, so like 8th grade. All wanna-be football players are gathered to sign up. Coach calls us down one by one to fill out our names, address, etc. I get down there and he asks my position. I say o-line. He head-butts me. No helmet or anything. Just grabs my head (hand on each temple) and slams his forehead into mine. Still not sure why.

Or THIS one, from apostles03:

I'm older than most Deadspinners, and physical abuse from coaches and teachers was tolerated a lot more when I was a kid than it is nowadays. We had a head coach in my high school program back in the early ‘80's who wore a whistle around his neck, secured by a leather cord. When he got especially pissed off about something, he would take the whistles off of his neck and literally whip a kid with the cord-often he would hit the shoulder pads, but on many occasions he struck the neck or the exposed back/stomach under a practice jersey. This happened maybe every other practice, at least once, to some poor kid.

I personally had to hide welts from my parents or lie about how I got a mark on my back because I didn't want to have to quit football. My parents never found out, but I'm sure some other parents knew. However, nothing was ever done about it.

One guy (an offensive guard) got hit so many times we called him "Toby". Think of the scene from Alex Haley's "Roots." 80's humor! Slap me five!

I'd sure like to whip his old carcass with a leather cord one time before he dies.

You see? Headbutts? Whippings? We can't let these stories go untold! More responsibly reported and safely anonymous emails on Monday.

Ravens at Browns: Good God. This is the Monday Night game? Holy shit, this is awful. It's rare you see a sporting event that could be ENHANCED by Chris Berman talking at the half.

Chiefs at Raiders: My mailman looks like Tom Cable. EXACTLY like him, right down to the constant sweating. And he delivers the mail the exact same way I would imagine Tom Cable delivering the mail. He just jams that shit into the slot as brusquely as humanly possible. He could give two shits if anything tears or folds. He just rapes the hell out of our mail slot. I really need to buy a mailbox.

Bucs at Dolphins: Our own Will Leitch wrote a rather pleasant and complimentary piece on Bill Simmons this week. I don't disagree with most of what Will wrote. Simmons absolutely created a new style and made old-school sports columnists instantly obsolete. I used to read him compulsively and still read most anything he writes about football or basketball. But I will tell you this: Underneath it all, Simmons still has the same DNA as the Mariottis of the world: thin skin, a steadfast belief that he's a genius when it comes to all things sports-related, bad nicknames for people (Dumbleavy? Really?), and a very small well of repeated joke memes. His voice was completely new and refreshing, but the message is often the same as the old guard. "These coaches don't know what they're doing!" "I told you something I predicted would come to pass!" There's still that self-lionization. And that's the frustrating thing about Simmons. I wish he'd leave those vestiges of the old sports writing world behind. He doesn't need them to be great. I wish he didn't always feel compelled to be the smartest asshole at the bar. Then he'd become an even greater force than he already is.

Lions at Vikings: NFL Shop always has a signature clothing pattern every year. This year, it's the "drift" pattern. Now, this is the ugliest fucking shirt I've ever seen. What is this, 1993? Jesus.

Broncos at Redskins: This game's bad. Know what's worse? A remake of "Paradise City" featuring Slash, Fergie, and B-Real of Cypress Hill.

And friend sent me this specifically to make me angry. Mission accomplished, sir. MISSION ACCOMPLISHED.

Pregame Song That Makes Me Want To Run Through A Goddamn Brick Wall

"New Fang," by Them Crooked Vultures. Josh Homme. Dave Grohl. John Paul Jones. Yep, that's my band. And you know who's not in this group? GODDAMN FUCKING FERGIE.

Embarassing Mixtape Track I Once Owned That Will Not Fire You Up

"Iesha," by Another Bad Creation. Ah, the East Coast Family. This entire group of bands fell off the face of the fucking Earth right before the turn of the century. I don't even see Boyz II Men on the nostalgia circuit. And what about that white band Michael Bivins had in one of these videos? I can't even remember their name (I thought they were in the "MotownPhilly" video, but I didn't see them). They looked like jackasses. I'm glad they never made it. Anyway, as of 2006, ABC still apparently existed. At the playyyyygrooooound…

UPDATE: Sudden Impact! Reader nvasconcelos identified them. Read more about the horribleness of Sudden Impact here.

Open Mailbag Tuesdays
Got something you want displayed for show and tell in the Deadspin Tuesday Mailbag? Dark meat, perhaps? Email me any question or observation you like.

Fantasy Player That Deserves To Die A Slow, Painful Death
Brian Westbrook. Oh, it was only a matter of time before he showed up here, with his brutal late scratch. YOU BASTARD. Aww, what's the matter, Brian? Your poor widdle head hurt? Afraid you'll get post-concussion syndrome? YOU PUSSY. You get out there, and you get your head bashed in. OUR FINANCIAL WELFARE DEPENDS ON IT. It's too late to undo the damage now! You'll be a wreck of a human being in a decade anyway! You'll be wandering the streets naked, squeezing block of cream cheese between your hands. GET ON THAT FIELD AND DANCE, RUNNERBOY!

Suicide Pick Of The Week
Last week's suicide pick of Atlanta was correct, making me 8-1 on the year. That puts the Falcons, Bears, Colts, Eagles, Vikings, Texans, Ravens, Saints and Skins off the board now. We once again pick a team for your suicide pool and something that makes you WANT to commit suicide. This week's pick? The Jets, and Silverstar headlights. I saw an ad for these things during the game the other day. They say they're brighter, and safer for your kids and all that shit. What they don't say is that fancy headlights like these will fucking BLIND every driver on the opposite side of the road. This shit is getting ridiculous. You have to drive with sunglasses on at night now because other assholes' headlights are brighter than the surface of a fucking white dwarf.

Nazi Shark's Vegas 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.

"This week, I like the Bears getting 3 points on the road against the 49ers. Hey, you lay off my poker buddy Easterbrook. Know what he calls it when you spike a one-eyed jack on the river? An EISNER. The guy's one of us."

2009 Nazi Shark Record: 6-3. He's back on track!

This Week's Pants Party Winner
Last week's Pants Party winner was J. Burns. He did not come to claim his prize. This week's winner was J. Mullins. Mr. Mullins, come and claim your rant prize. If you're related to Shawn Mullins, I will punch you in the tit. Everytheeeeeng's gonna be allll right, ROCK A BYE! God, I hate that song. I bet Fergie co-wrote it.

Great Moments In Poop History
Regrettably, I said in Tuesday's mailbag that it's probably impossible for someone to clog a toilet with poop alone. Well, I was fucking WRONG. Over a dozen people emailed in to tell me about the triumphant times in which they, or a loved one, stopped up an open toilet drain with a poopy softball with the density of a neutron star. Reader Mike sends in the most harrowing tale of the bunch.

What follows is a bad story. About my mother. If you use this, please exclude my last name.

My mom gets horribly constipated. Cannot go to the bathroom more than once a week, and frequently only has "movement" once every two weeks. It's just the way she's designed, for whatever weird horrible "God is going to punish you for your parents sins" type of reason.

One day she comes out of the bathroom, beat red and crying. The toilet clogged. Well, ok mom, go get a plunger. No, like it REALLY clogged and water was overflowing, my dad, soldier that he is, goes and gets the plunger. I follow from a safe distance. Yes, the toilet is actually overflowing, and I leave the room to get towels to mop off the shit water.

About 30 seconds later as I'm looking for garbage towels to use, my Dad comes back. Direct quote: Plunger won't work, the shit is stuck, I'm gonna have to chop it up, do we have an old butcher knife? Lo and behold, my dad, in about 3 inches of my mom's shit water, had to chop of a large ball of compressed excrement of my mom's lodged directly in the exit hole of the toilet.

God only knows how she got that thing out on her own without going to emergency.

Oh, man. Butchered poop. Are you as horrified as I am? Let us huddle for warmth.

Now, for a proper poop story from reader Darrin. He calls it, "The Poopsicle."

When I was in college attending the fine Fairfield University in Connecticut (which is a terrible state filled with terrible people), we lived in large cookie-cutter townhouses during our junior and senior years. Our group being accepting and jovial drinkers, we didn't really have a problem with anyone. Except, we lived next to a set of thoroughbred guido neighbors. Orange faces, gold crosses, super spiked hair gel. These guys were born, bred, and raised on the Jersey shore. Needless to say, we hated these guys.

Fast forward to Christmas Vacation. My Canadian roommate and I were enjoying an empty campus and a full bottle of Jager. He couldn't pay for a flight home and I'm an alcoholic. We drank for 10 days straight. The digestive system of a human male simply was never meant to process ramen noodles, pizza, and liters of alcohol over a long period of time. Finally, this crested when we were playing some Xbox, and I announced a shit of epic proportions was coming. I bolted to the bathroom, and I heard my roommate leaving the house. While in the bathroom, I was working up to it, as I could feel a mammoth stampeding toward the exit when there was a knock on the bathroom door. The door then opens and a red cooler slides in, and the door closes. "The guidos left their cooler on the porch. Shit in it".

Three simply words. "Shit. In. It." I have never had more respect for someone.

So I scooted my ass forward and braced myself on the sides of the cooler. I huffed and I puffed, and I heard a loud plop. The smell was horrendous, I couldn't even breathe. I hopped back onto the toilet to clean myself, and I had to put the lid on the cooler or I wasn't going to make it. I opened the door and my roomate was half way across the room telling me how much it reaked.

I dragged the cooler back to the porch, but I just had to take a look, see what papa made. I looked down and there it was. It looked like it came from an elephant. A constipated elephant. Who hadn't shit in weeks. My roomate is now convinced that I have some sort of bowel disorder, because the evidence in the cooler was inhuman.

We waited, and we waited, and it stayed there for a month, then two. Meanwhile I had told everyone I knew, who would stealthily sneak a glimpse of the turdious maximus. But the cooler never moved. Finally, mid-February, the cooler is the middle of the common area, where it was clearly hurled a long distance, broken open, and, now resembling swamp thing, my magnificence had rolled out into the grass, still frozen in ice that had gathered in the cooler. It was now like a poop-ice sculpture, a poopsicle if you will.

Brilliant.

Fire This Asshole!
Is there anything more exciting than a coach losing his job? All year long, we'll keep track of which coaches will almost certainly get fired at year's end or sooner. And now, your updated chopping block:

Tom Cable*
Jim Zorn
Eric Mangini
Jim Mora
Jeff Fisher
Dick Jauron
Jack Del Rio*
Todd Haley
Lovie Smith
Andy Reid

We welcome Andy Reid to the chopping block with open arms. And we take a moment to acknowledge Dallas Morning News writer Jean-Jacques Taylor, who apparently lives in some parallel universe where Philadelphians adore Andy Reid and wish him nothing but peace and rainbows. "Philadelphia trusts Reid implicitly." It does? Do you even know where Philadelphia is? Are you aware that it's located in Pennsylvania and is filled with impatient dickheads? It reminds me of this sketch.

"And do these lions eat ants?"

Gametime Snack Of The Week

Ants on a log! Do I lick the groove of the celery and then discard it, without ever actually eating the vegetable part? Fuck and yes, I do. Adults always try and get kids to get healthy shit by tossing unhealthy shit on top of it. But kids aren't stupid. Eating big chunks of celery is awful. Like biting into a roll of dental floss.

My wife bought that fucking Jessica Seinfeld cookbook, the one where you make spinach purees and shit and bake them into muffins. The kid took one sniff of the muffin and cast it overboard. Jessica Seinfeld, you can eat hog.

Gametime Cheap Beer Of The Week

TESCO! Reader Mark C. writes in:

Last week's Chinese beer selection sparked my memory of the greatest cheap beer in the world. TESCO brand beer (or "lager" if you're some fancy Englishman) is the cheap beer of the world. TESCO is the Wal-Mart of the UK. While studying in Belfast in college, another broke American college student and I were perusing the beer and wine aisle in TESCO looking for the ultimate combination of cheap and drunk. An Irish bum with an incredible dirty beard and even better accent got our attention. He grumbled "Try this shit, it will get you fucked up." It seems TESCO produces what's called "value lager." It's 91 pence (or about $1.50) for 4 pints. That's about 6 twelve-ounce beers for $1.50. Ever drank 12 beers for 3 bucks?

Discounting keg party fees? Can't say that I have. Man oh man, that is some cheap as shit stale piss. Look at those cans. It looks like jock itch spray. Mmmm, frothy jock itch spray. I MUST HAVE IT.

Robert Evans' MVP Watch!
Time to start thinking about who the leaders are for the NFL's MVP award. So every week, legendary Hollywood producer Robert Evans will join us to give us his assessment. Take it away, Mr. Evans.

"Baby, my favorite for the NFL's MVP this year is still a TIE between Drew Brees of the Saints and Peyton Manning of the Colts! I was saddened recently to hear that my good friend Denny Hopper is suffering from prostate cancer. AND WHAT A PROSTATE! Big? You bet! That puppy has churned out more Easy Riders than a Mumbai sperm bank! I spent some time with Hop in Aruba when he was directing a short film that no one has ever seen. It was called GIRL ON A ROPE. And it was about a man, played by Hop, who sucked morphine straight from the bag and kept his wife on a rope! And Hop studied for that role by sucking morphine straight from the bag and keeping his wife on a rope! For eight weeks! Dedicated? YOU BET! Crazy as Hell? Goddamn right."

Sunday Afternoon Movie Of The Week For Browns Fans

A Perfect World. This was an awesome movie. Except for the scenes with Clint Eastwood, which comprise half the movie. Cut those scenes out, and it's fucking awesome. But I didn't like the scene where Kevin Costner has the kid make mayonnaise sandwiches. And then they eat mayonnaise sandwiches. That is fucking horrible and worse than anything in the Saw films.

Gratuitous Simpsons Quote
"Come to Duff Gardens, where roaming gangs aren't a problem anymore!"

Halftime Masturbation Kit
-For the guys: Holy Taco's gallery of men staring at boobs. That's good work there, men.
-For the gals: A very shirtless Josh Duhamel. ANOTHER THING RUINED BY FERGIE.

Enjoy the games, everyone.

It's ridiculous to blame Drew for "not vetting" this story as thoroughly as possible given that he's doing a series that's built on first-hand accounts about supposedly asshole coaches. Drew came to me with this story and suggested this one was unique enough to stand on its own outside of the series. I agreed. It was amusing and given Murphy's reputation as a hot-head and the other details of the event that were clearly true, it seemed completely plausible.

Obviously, that was wrong. When you run one-sided versions of stories, which we often do here, the goal is just that — to show one person's side. That's it. It's been my experience, more often than not, that putting these first-person accounts on items reveal a larger truth or open the door to finding out the bigger story. This is how we've successfully done many things on this site over the years from "You're With Me Leather" to Josh Hamilton.

Of course, this is not how traditional media outlets do things. Most people read Deadspin for various reasons but I don't think any readers come here with the idea that what they'll find will be something they'd find in magazines, newspapers, or websites that they'd find elsewhere. This site has been built employing both traditional journalism practices and non-traditional ones, which has tremendous benefits but plenty of risks as well. I don't think it's that difficult to distinguish between when we're practicing journalism and, especially, when we don't. But when facts are wrong, they get corrected, as they should. And unlike other traditional publications, I think we draw a lot more attention to our mistakes than just a 10 word correction buried on page A12.

We've already run the correction on the story and Drew did his best to rectify that situation. This is simply me underlining that fact that he was doing what he was told to do by me and he's not the bad guy in this situation. The real culprit is the misguided fellow who emailed the bullshit story to begin with and, of course, the very elastic editorial policy employed here by Deadspin which is championed by me.

Regardless of this unfortunate incident, I'm confident that we're doing the right thing most of the time. When we don't, well, it has to be addressed. This is me addressing it.

'Til the next episode.

I've removed the story in question, because the guy who sent it in emailed me later on to tell me that, in fact, Murphy never threatened to kick his ass. Instead, I'm going to run this version of the story from ASU assistant SID Randy Policar. What we're left with is the rather sad story of an autograph hound stopping at nothing to get a signature from a very frail and vulnerable boxing legend. A brief warning: the bolded sentence below may cause spontaneous bouts of weeping.

Let me start by saying that there was no "security" at this event, per se. It was all volunteers. It wasn't an ASU event, so I was there as a volunteer as well. When Ali arrived at 6:45, a group of volunteers (myself included) helped get him to the golf cart that he was to ride in. His wife and sister-in-law were with him. There was a group of 10-15 people with items to be signed, and Ali's wife and sister made it clear that A. he was not physically able to really sign and B. he would not be signing anything tonight due to an exclusive memorabilia contract that he had.

Ali was brought up to a suite at Scottsdale Stadium for him, his wife and his sister-in-law. While it is true that Coach Murphy was one of the first to greet him, I can promise you, in no uncertain terms, Pat Murphy DID NOT have Muhammad Ali sign anything for him. I was in there the entire time Coach was, and Murph went in there to welcome him and to thank him for lending his name to the charity event. He asked Ali if it would be ok if he could take a picture with him and his wife, and if his daughter could get a picture. He also asked if Ali would like to meet Dustin Pedroia and Andre Ethier, MLB players who were also in attendance. Ethier and his 18-month old son were brought in and spent a few minutes with him, then Pedroia and his three-month old came in. Ali was very excited to see the little boys and held them on his lap while posing for some photos.

After the players left, fans starting pouring into the suite. Ali's wife became concerned about the number of people in there, but was still very gracious and allowed most of them to shake Ali's hand and pose for a photo. The person who wrote the email, and I know exactly who it is, came into the suite with a giant poster and other items to be signed. He shoved past the other people in the suite and basically pushed a pen and the poster into Ali's face. Ali's wife told the gentleman that Muhammad could not sign, because of contractual issues and because he was doing a private signing the following week. The man started to protest and Mrs. Ali offered to take his name and phone number down and told him she would call him and try and work something out so he could get something signed. He gave her the information and she put it in her purse. She was clearly frustrated at how pushy he was, but she handled it well and no one raised their voice. The man then got a photo with Ali and left the booth. During this time, Murphy was not in the Ali suite, but next door with Pedroia and Ethier.

After Ali was taken down to the field on his cart, they sang the national anthem and woman performed a song to honor Ali. He stood up and waved to the crowd and then greeted some young baseball players who participate in a little league that was founded and originally funded by Coach Murphy. After that, Ali got back in his cart to leave.

At this point, the people on the field at Scottsdale Stadium were either participants in the home run derby, Sandlot All-Star (little league) players and parents, volunteers or media members. During the song to Ali, I saw the emailer jump the fence and come on to the field. Once Ali got onto his cart, this guy once again shoved a pen and a Sports Illustrated into Ali's face. He was told again by Ali's wife and sister-in-law no autographs, but he kept pushing, begging and pleading with Muhammad to sign. Ali's wife reminded him that she had taken his number and was going to call him, but he completely dismissed her. The crowd was all over the guy, yelling at him to show some respect and heed his wishes, but he didn't care at all. Eventually, Ali relented (and honestly, at that point, what choice did he have, the guy was not going to move) and began to sign the magazine.

I swear to you, it took Ali around three or four minutes to sign his name, because of his physical condition. He had to be held up, because he could not stand on his own. Ali did thumb through the magazine, and eventually got into the cart. The emailer's claim that he was thrown into the backstop by ASU security is a patently ridiculous statement. First off, it was not an ASU event, so there was no ASU security or any other type of security, just the volunteers. Second off, I saw it, he was asked to back off and refused. There was no physical assault of any kind. When Ali's cart drove off, one of the volunteers who helped set up the event escorted him off the field and out of the stadium.

I can also tell you that I spoke to Ali's wife prior to the whole incident, and they were planning on staying at the event to watch the home run derby. We already had begun preparations to bring Ali back up to the suite. But after the stunt that the emailer pulled, they decided to leave and not subject Ali to anything else like that. I thought Ali handled the whole situation well, as did his family. This guy was told no by numerous people, was given special treatment by Ali's wife to try and accommodate him, and still didn't like the answer he got. So he decided that the rules didn't apply to him and did whatever he had to in order to get what he wanted. It was a selfish act by this guy, who had already gotten a photo with Ali, something more valuable than a signature if you truly are a big fan. He got his moment with The Champ, but it wasn't enough for him.

To call a guy "the biggest asshole he ever met", the same guy who was putting on a Charity Event is just stupid. This guy clearly didn't care about the charity, or where the money was going, or the point of the event, he wanted Ali's autograph and felt he was entitled to it because he spent $99 to get in. Coach Murphy worked really hard to get Ali to come to the event, in the hopes that having his name attached would help raise money for a good cause, and this guy disrespects Ali and his family all because he wanted an autograph. Pat Murphy put on a charity event to raise money for an organization, The Crossroads, that is near and dear to his heart. He didn't put on an autograph show. Coach has donated thousands of dollars to charities throughout the country, he just doesn't advertise it.

He saved old game balls that were used once and tossed and donated them to inner city schools who couldn't afford baseballs, he donated sporting goods to Boys Town in Omaha so they could have new equipment to use. He's donated over $100,000 back to ASU for facility improvements and to help get his assistant coaches more money, and he started his own little league for kids who couldn't afford to join. He paid for uniforms and equipment and let them use a field for free, just so he could let underprivileged kids enjoy baseball. If those are the acts of the "biggest asshole", then maybe the world needs more assholes like Pat Murphy.

Coach doesn't know I sent this, and I was not directed by my superiors to defend him. I just wanted to set the record straight because I know Coach Murphy and his family and I know what kind of person he is. He can get mad and get heated, but he has a heart of gold, I promise you. It was a great event for a great cause, and I would hate to see his name dragged through the mud and the event tarnished because of half-truths from one person, who ultimately, got what he wanted, regardless of how it was obtained.

Sorry I got a little long winded, but I wanted you to hear what happened from my perspective.

I followed up with the reader (we'll call him Asshole) who sent in the original story for a clarification of what happened. Here is our exchange.

ME: Did you lie when you wrote this, Asshole?

ASSHOLE: I did not, but the details are distorted enough to cause issues. It was a funny story that has gone too far.

(19 minutes later)

ASSHOLE: Some information may be false…

(43 minutes later)

ASSHOLE: Drew, Murphy did not say those things to me...

Well, thanks. I'm glad we cleared that up. You asshole. I hope you get beaten like a redheaded stepchild.

UPDATE: The Pat Murphy Home Run Derby was established to benefit The Crossroads. You can learn more about that charity here. And, of course, my deepest apologies to Pat Murphy an the ASU athletic department.

Before we get to the questions this week, a little rumor about Dan Snyder. I heard this story on LaVar Arrington's 106.7 FM radio show here in DC last week. A fan called in to tell Arrington and co-host Chad Dukes about an exterminator he knew. The exterminator was called to Snyder's house to spray for pests. When the exterminator arrived, the housekeeper instructed him where to go spray. But the exterminator found no signs of pests in the space. He came down to tell the housekeeper there was no need to spray, and he didn't want to take Snyder's money for a service the Redskins owner didn't need performed (clearly, this man was honest to a fault).

The housekeeper insisted the exterminator spray the area anyway, telling the man that Snyder hated to be told he was wrong, and that it would be better for everyone if he simply sprayed the area, took his money, and went about his business. But, he explained, there's nothing there. There's no need to spray. She insisted. Apparently, you REALLY do not want to tell Dan Snyder there are no pests in his house if he believes otherwise. So the man sprayed the area for no reason, took Snyder's money, and left.

And now you know why the Redskins are considering signing Larry Johnson.

Emails away!

Barb-A-Rod:

I'm a 27 year old guy, married for just over a year. We do not have a kid, yet. I smoke some good nugs daily, after I get home from work, and sometimes the wife will imbibe as well. Now, we're going to start trying for a child in the next month or two (she wants the baby to be born around October. Why, I have no idea) so clearly she has to quit smoking for the time being. Does that mean I have to quit smoking too? Can I just cut back? Do I need to get my spermies checked? Does that shit really lower your swimmer count? Do I ask too many unnecessary questions?

And reader JonnyDakota with a companion email:

Any babymaking tips? I've never made one on purpose before. Been trying for a couple months, didn't know it would be a challenge. Wife wants me to quit drinking while we try, but that hasn't and will not happen, certainly not during football season.

It's a law of nature that successful procreation is eighty times more difficult to achieve when you are intentionally trying to make a child. If you were banging a hooker in an alleyway instead, your chances of conception would rise an astonishing 370%. Your wife will do a lot of reading about fertility in the coming weeks and months (and will demand you do likewise), and somewhere along the line she will come across some bullshit advice from a doctor telling her that married couples need to behave like fucking Mormons in order to conceive a child and ensure that child doesn't come out retarded. No pot. No booze. No sushi (something about mercury). No cold cuts. For real. No cold cuts. She WILL force you to stop smoking the weed. It's all but inevitable. I bargained with Mrs. Drew for the right to drink, but she watched my intake like a fucking hawk.

HER: How many beers is that?

ME: Two.

HER: There are eight cans in the recycling bin.

ME: FUCK.

Anyway, I suggest you put up with all these restrictions for now. Once you finally hit paydirt (and that process itself is quite enjoyable), you have a designated driver for nine months. Not a bad payoff.

One other thing: I saw a doctor once while trying to have our second kid, and he told me I needed to cut out masturbation and attempt conceiving with the Mrs. Once every THREE days, and not more frequently. This increases your payload and floods your lady's reproductive system with manpaint. And it worked. But holding out for three days was fucking AGONY. It was horrible. Like being in Nam. I can't do it again, or I will fucking die.

Travis:

If there was a scale of tastiness, what food would have the largest extremes between its "fresh" version and its "leftovers" version? My vote is French Fries. The least extreme? I think it's pizza.

It can't be pizza. Pizza fresh out of the oven is fantastic. Jack Donaghy says preferring cold pizza over hot is CRAZY. Gotta be chili. Chili's even better the more you reheat it. Lasagna, too. But I agree on French fries. Ever get delivery French fries? They're always terrible.

Adam:

What is the proper portocol for taking a giant 12 hours of drinking and eating fried-food type of shit, when you reach for some tp, and you are denied. There's none in the cabinet-fuck my retarded roommate…

FLOYD! FLOYD, YOU USED UP ALL THE TOILET PAPER!

…There is some paper towels, but that's a good 25 foot walk, fuck. So what to do, hop in the shower and let water and gravity do there work and clean the shit out of it later, or make a slow ass clinched walk into the kitchen with hopes of no drips? Or just use your asshole roommate's bed sheets?

No, you gotta hit the kitchen and do that clenched asswalk. If there are paper products to be used, you are, by law, mandated to use them first before any cloth substitutes.

Emily:

Any thoughts on the Final Three of Project Runway? I agree that the cast wasn't as strong this season, but you must have some thoughts. At the very least, don't you think Irina is such a bitch?

Total bitch. It's the worst season in the history of the show. Kors and Garcia are never fucking there. (Imagine if Simon Cowell missed 70% of every Idol episode. If you liked that show, you'd be fucking pissed.) The move to LA was pointless and stupid. The challenges are terrible. The Gawker reviewers are right: they just tell the designers to go to Mood and make some shit. There's no, "Make a dress out of medical waste" type challenges that are cool. And the contestants are shit. How the fuck did Christopher last this long? They take this asshole to the Getty Museum, and he's inspired by algae on the rocks outside of the place? He may as well have been inspired by a fucking parking spot. What a crybaby asshole. He should have been out the first day.

The final three are all underwhelming. Irina's a bitch. Althea has Kirsten Dunst's teeth and makes the same floppy clothes every week. And Carol Hannah totally looks like this one dude I know. No lie. Slap a shitlaod of eyeliner on him, toss on a wig, and you got Carol Hannah. It's unnerving. All of them would get crushed if this were any other season. I think they're all allergic to actual colors. I say Irina wins handily, and then they'll pretend as if this season never existed. Next season, they're back in New York and Kors and Garcia are on for every episode. I think it'll be back to normal.

(Also, Irina is the hottest of the final three. I think. But she looks like the type of person that would lie there and smoke during intercourse.)

John:

If you have a 3-day weekend, is it better to have Friday or Monday off?

Friday. Not even close. More people take Friday off, so there are more people to drink with. You can go out on Thursday, best night of the week, and not worry about work. If you take Monday off, the weekend still feels like it's over come Monday morning anyway. You feel aimless.

Pedro:

My only real goal in life is to clog a toilet with only poop (i.e., no toilet paper). A friend of mine says he's done this, but he's a lying sack of shit. Have you done it?

Nope. Poop is ergonomically designed for easy flushing, with its snakelike contours. I say it's not possible.

Brad:

I bought a $5 footlong and gave my roommate half of it as soon as I opened it up. He took two bites and put it in the fridge. 6 hours later, I'm hungry and it's still there, he's napping. Do I have legit rights to it or would it be a dick move?

Fuck and yes, you do. You paid for it, and that asshole couldn't even be bothered to sit and eat it with you like a proper friend? It's yours. Eat it and then belch in his ungrateful face.

Matt:

What are your thoughts on jerking off while your driving? I am a huge fan of doing said action, but my friends always bust my balls (pun intended). They say it's real sketchy and that other motorists will see me. The thing is, whenever a driver passes me, I just pretend like I'm looking for something in my pocket and nobody gets wise. Please let me know how you feel.

I have done this while driving a handful of times, but only when out on the highway, with no traffic blockages. You're going one speed, there's constant passing, etc. Doing it in the middle of urban traffic? That's fucking repugnant and you should be jailed.

I feel very proud of myself after a highway jerk. Very productive.

Chester Chodums:

Looking at that brazilian tumblr site gave me an idea: Can you rank the varying degrees of NSFW content? NSFW where? What if I work on the set of a porn movie? What if I teach kindergarten? What if I have my own office? What if 23 people can see my computer at any given moment? What's pretty safe for work unless you have an uptight boss. What's kind of safe for work? What's risky but worth it, as long as you time it right? What's brazen and bold and could get you in some trouble? And what's absolutely, positively not to be viewed except in the privacy of your own closet at 3 a.m.?

NSFW just doesn't cut it, and everyone seems to have a different idea of what that is. Movies have ratings. Links to content need more shading and definition as well.

I concur. You'll notice a lot of guys toss in the EXTREMELY NSFW warning when it's hardcore porn you're about to click on. That helps. But otherwise, I suggest we make like the TV ratings and add suffixes that indicate content.

NSFWL – NSFW language. Believe it or not, some offices frown on even bad language on sites. Fucking commies.

NSFWSN – NSFW soft nudity

NSFWHN – NSFW hard nudity

NSFWT – NSFW thong

NSFWCC – NSFW cheesecake (not nudity, but bikinis and lingerie and what not)

NSFWF – NSFW fisting

Parker:

I may be the only person who was happy to have the Favre cam Sunday, as I was stuck in the university library, but was stil able to pull the Favre cam up and get Fox's live game audio at no charge. It was the only thing that saved me from my personal hell of studying all goddamn day.

Fair enough.

Eric:

You're wrong about Randy Lerner. He wants people to think he gives a shit about the Browns, but he really doesn't. He cares more about how people see him as the owner of the team. Given Dan Snyder's nationwide humiliation, it's easy to see Lerner trying to escape the same fate even though his team is by a wide margin shittier.

He probably paid Mike Randall to say nice things about him and BS that he was paying attention to his ideas to give fans the false idea that the franchise is doing OK (and so they continue to pay to see a 1-15 team).

Fair enough again. I was out of turn being nice to Randy Lerner, given what the Browns have done to you over the past decade. He says he wants to bring in Ernie Accorsi, Mike Holmgren, or Ron wolf to fix this thing. If he fails to get any of those men, then I think you're right to go poop on his lawn.

Greg:

I have a question about Thanksgiving etiquette. This year, I'm going to a large gathering of my girlfriend's family - we've been together over a year and I've been to a few gatherings before so I'm not concerned with the "new boyfriend" awkwardness. What I am concerned with is the availability of dark meat and skin at the serving table.

As you know, these are precious commodities and could possibly end up in short supply. In past years, when I've either been at home or a small gathering with my own family and/or friends, I have no reservations about filling my plate with as many of these juicy delicious pieces as possible (Aside: Ever "accidentally" drop a piece into the moat of grease surrounding the turkey before delivering to your plate? I highly recommend it.). (Ed note: Yup.) Anyway, my question is, what's my best strategy for loading up on these wonderful pieces of turkey flesh without looking like a fucking douchebag?

I too agree that there's never enough dark meat and skin. And I've noticed, over the years, that more and more of my family members have grown wise to the fact that the dark meat tastes incredible and the white meat tastes boring as shit. Thus, the scramble becomes even more fierce. We need to breed turkeys that have triple-sized legs and thighs for this reason. They already bioengineer the living shit out of these things, so I say we go even further in making these Frankenbirds as much of an affront to God as possible.

For now, I suggest simply waiting until your girlfriend's mom tells you to fill your plate (and she will insist you do this at some point). "Oh, Greg! Greg, get some food!" Then, load up all you like. I suggest keeping all your food within the boundaries of the plate rim. That way, it appears modest. Also, load up on meat before anything else. If you need to sacrifice taking extra stuffing for now, do so. You can always go back to come out even later.

Dave:

Ever take a piss with khaki pants on, and you try and get the last few dribbles out, but then you zip up only to realize its bled through your brown pants? Now everyone can see you clearly just pissed and you have to try to cover it up with your hand when you see a co-worker in the hall. Annoying.

Yep. Happens ALL THE FUCKING TIME to me. Usually before a job interview. Then you gotta do that thing where you take your hand and rub the shit out of the spot until it's hand-dried. Brutal. I'm a terrible dribbler. Sometimes I'll finish pissing and half a pint leaks right out and down into the grundle of my boxers. No warning. Just BOOM. Instant wetness. It's the worst thing ever. I am broken. I need a cock cinch.

Chris:

I went to the University of Arizona for undergrad and we had a Chipotle right off campus that my friends and I would frequent at least once a day.

Back when we were freshman in 2002, for $5 you could get an overstuffed burrito with unlimited hot sauce and it would fill you up from lunch until it was time to drink. I had a pretty solid system for getting the most out of my buck too - when the person behind the aisle would ask what kind of meat I'd like, I'd say Chicken, and then as he was scooping a gratuitous amount of supple bird onto my tortilla, I'd quickly change my mind and say Steak, forcing him to just say fuck it cuz he's a Chipotle worker and just go ahead and double meat that baby free of charge. Then I'd ask for every veggie available, which would force the tortilla roller lady to use two tortillas to encase my entire meal. So when I'd sit down, I'd unwrap my meats and veggies, equally dispersing the ingredients into two tortillers, and voila, I'd have 2 burritos for the price of one.

Chris, you sir, are a genius. Everyone take notes. We have much to learn from this very fat and thrifty young man.

Anonymous:

Has their ever been anyone more perverted in sports than mascots? I don't know if you've ever heard these fuckers talk, but I'm pretty sure that they feel dressing up like an animal is THE SHIT, and therefore gives them an excuse to talk dirty in public. I can't how many times I've heard Testudo (University of Maryland), tell a girl he'll only take a picture with them because they've got such a fine ass, and then squeeze it. The worst part? He gets away with it! They giggle! Any explanations?

They're like animated programming. You get away with murder when you look cartoonish. Also, you have more license to act like a filthy lech when you're willing to dress up in a ridiculous outfit. Girls immediately label you as extroverted and fun if you're an asshole in am ascot suit. Is the Maryland mascot really named Testudo? Jesus. Patting asses is nothing. He should be dry humping spectators with a name like that.

Kevin:

How many times do you read over an important email to proof-read it? Isn't there always that one error you want to take back after getting a reply or re-reading it after sending? You can read it 4503 times and still find that error after you hit the send button.

Yep. I can look at a document 700 times and still miss at least five glaring typos. But I hardly think it matters in this day and age. Sometimes I see typos in my email now and just leave them, because I know no one gives a shit. And that is why this world is GOING TO HECK IN A HANDBASKET.

Krampus:

Follow up question to Shane's story about rooting against your school: How do you feel about people who obsess about a college team when they never even went to college? I'm sure this is rampant in SEC country, but my personal experience is with people from Connecticut who won't shut up about UConn basketball - men's or women's. Calm down, fuck face, you have no stake in these proceedings. (Confession: I went to a Catholic school with no football team, and thus casually root for Notre Dame. But I don't get emotional about it.)

Yeah. That is weird. I guess it makes some sense in Connecticut, which has no professional team representation. But if you're firing up the RV and heading out to a Tennessee game with giant orange banners flying from your roof, and you went to Marist, that's a little weird. But what if you were too stupid to get into one of those schools? Or what if you got a scholarship to Harvard despite loving Tennessee your whole life? I guess it's okay. Or something. I dunno. All I know is that you're a douche if you root for Notre Dame, no matter what. FUCK YOU BUDDY.

Dan:

I absolutely love jalapenos on my food, but the fire shits that follow cause me to avoid them whenever possible. Is there some trick to easing the discomfort/pain of crapping molten lava or do I just have to keep denying myself sweet jalepeno goodness whenever possible?

I think taking a Zantac or Pepcid before you eat may help. I too wrestle with the choice between delicious spicy food and knowing my asshole will bear the brunt of punishment for it. And you know what? My asshole loses that argument every time. Every time. It doesn't matter how vehement its argument is. DON'T DO IT, MAN! I'LL BE VOMITING UP BROWN FILTH ALL DAY LONG! No matter. Must… have… chili cheesesteak…

Timmy:

You're completely right about the waterless urinals, they fucking suck. The one exception is the visitor's center on Assateague Island in Virginia. Your piss makes interesting little designs there, and it is mesmerizing and beautiful.

Not unlike the brook trout described at the end of "The Road". Maps and mazes. Of a piss that could not be made right again.

I had a swimming coach when I was four, named Mr. Willamy. During a swim lesson, I was reluctant to enter the pool. Mr. Willamy responded by yelling at me, dunking my head in the water, and holding it there until I was nearly drowning. Mr. Willamy wasn't fired for this, of course. Mr. Willamy kept his job for decades, and was something of an institution. He's dead now. Fuck that guy.

If you've ever played sports (or, in my case, attempted to), you have no doubt encountered your fair share of asshole coaches. BLAZING ASSHOLE COACHES. In fact, I'd argue that most men become coaches because they couldn't be bothered to fill out the application to become a fucking rent-a-cop. You know the kind of coach I mean. Aviator shades. Puffed chest. Drunk with precious authority. Ready to scream at children at the drop of a hat. For every Tony Dungy in this world, there are roughly one million complete fucking scumbags aspiring to be the next Bear Bryant.

Well, it's time to call those gentlemen out. Deadspinners, welcome to our very first edition of ASSHOLE COACH DIGEST. Every Monday, we'll be chronicling real stories about coaches who are arrogant, unpleasant, and downright abusive. You can send me your coaching horror stories right here. I don't give a shit if your coach is BAD. I don't care if he elected to kick a field goal when he was down by seven points with no timeouts and only five minutes left (Hi, Andy!). And I really don't give a shit if he didn't give you enough PT.

No, I'm talking about the Manginis of the world. The slimy, slogan-spouting assholes who just can't wait to put you in your place. It can be any sport. It can be your current coach, or a coach you once had. You can name names, or you can be anonymous. I don't care. All I want is to offer you a bit of payback to any coach who took his bullshit too fucking far. The end goal, naturally, is to get stories about some big name assholes: the Bobby Knights and Todd Haleys of the world. But really, any coach will do. It's time to debunk a profession that is often lionized far beyond what it deserves. Molder of young men, my ass. Take this story, from reader Andrew:

I think I've got 90% of people beat with my fourth grade flag football coach. First of all, guy was this huge, former o lineman who was living vicariously through his fourth grade son. Dude, would have us doing legitimate drills such as leg lifts and ab work for this team. I feel the need to reemphasize the fact here, that this was a fourth grade coach and most of the kids were 9-10 years old and just want to play glorified backyard ball.

Oh and I did I mention the guy broke my collarbone? Yes, yes, my fourth grade flag football coach broke me collarbone. You may be asking yourself right now, "How Andrew, How did your fourth grade flag football coach break your collarbone?" Well, let me tell you, so we were playing a scrimmage in the backyard of our elementary school. Well, one kid on our team, who was lined up at linebacker, had watched some tv and figured out a juke move that he was using on some poor kid who was lined up center. The poor kid was always getting faked out by this move because, he was, you know, fucking nine.

So the coach decides the best way to teach these kids how to stop such a move is to INSERT HIMSELF IN THE FUCKING SCRIMMAGE. So now, there is a forty year old, 200+ lbs. huge dude lined up at center, in the middle of this scrimmage of nine and ten year olds. So the next play from scrimmage occurs and the kid playing linebacker fakes his juke and completely outmaneuvers the coach, the coach dives for where he thinks the kid is supposed to be and instead, lays me out. We're talking, this guy performed a near flawless form tackle on my, tiny, fifty pound self and proceeded to lay on top of me for a good couple of seconds afterwards.

Needless to say my collarbone snapped like a dry piece of spaghetti. Soon after my incident, half of the team quit because the coach was fucking psychotic and his kid moved maybe two years later. But my goddamn shoulder still fucking hurts whenever the air pressure changes to serve a nice little reminder of the great flag football career I had consisting of one fucking game and then a nice stint on the DL.

Or this one, from Jared:

In the spring semester of my junior year in high school there were these rumors going around the school that head football coach was having an affair and was getting divorced. This ended up being true but the next part is the shocker.

He was having the affair with the assistant coach's wife, who also had a son on the football team who was the starting QB.

After each got divorced they started dating and got married that summer. He even kept his job at the school even though he supply fucked her in his office multiple times. The kid even had to keep playing for the jerk-off because his dad couldn't afford to send him to the private school in the area. So the whole season this kid had to play for a coach who fucked his mom and ruined his parents' marriage. The kid's dad, who used to be good friends with the guy and was the defensive coordinator, quit because of the whole head coach fucking his wife thing. The coach ended up leaving after the season when he got new job but the damage was done. He was a total douchbag.

You get the idea. Broken collarbones. Boning the starting QB's mom. This is WHY YOUR COACH SUCKS. Photos, video, and scanned motivational slogans are all welcome.

I once had to spend a day working with a very obnoxious woman in a New York recording studio during the playoffs back in 2001. Every five seconds, this horrible beast of a human being would sit down and shout out to no one in particular, BOY, I TELL YA, IT'S TOUGH BEING A YANKEES FAN! Any time I tried to speak, she talked right over me to talk about the fucking Yankees. That's the kind of person celebrating down in the Canyon of Heroes: worthless sacks of shit who believe the historic superiority of their baseball team somehow makes them more important people than you or I.

So allow me to take this moment to craft a very heartfelt message to the Yankees and their fans today: FUCK YOU. Fuck your team. Fuck your stadium. Fuck your history. Fuck it with a gun.

Fuck you, Joe Delessio. Don't try and tell me that you Yankee fans are sweet little angels who just happen to be blessed with astonishing success.

A common criticism of Yankees fans is that we feel entitled, that we believe we deserve only the best players, and that it's World Series or bust. This criticism has at least some merit. But can you blame us? We have to spend more on tickets, and we have to plan out which games we're going to attend in March if, God forbid, we want to sit in the upper deck without going to StubHub.

OH NOES! You have to spend money! Money that might have to come out of your yearly Paris summercation budget! And you have to buy tickets IN ADVANCE! Oh, the agony! How I wish I could be a Royals fan and wander into an empty and lifeless stadium on a whim!

Fuck you, Jay Z. The fuck are you doing on the float? You didn't do SHIT. And fuck A-Rod's hat. Fuck Billy Crystal. Fuck Joe DiMaggio and Mickey Mantle, and the astonishing number of Yankees Hall of Famers who were drunks, wife beaters, and obnoxious pricks. Fuck the fans who happily overlook the massive character flaws of said heroes because they themselves possess similar attributes. Fuck George Steinbrenner. YOU'RE DYING, AND NOTHING CAN STOP IT NOW. Why don't you go play another game of chess against a roll of scotch tape, you senile old prick?

Fuck New York City bus drivers. Will you please, for once, stop right where all of us are standing, instead of pulling thirty yards further down the curb to accommodate some ghost bus behind you that never arrives? DICKS. Fuck Mike Francesca. Fuck the real estate brokers in your town. THOSE PEOPLE ARE SATAN'S LAMBS. Fuck the subway, especially the 4 train to Yankee Stadium, which fucking blows. And double fuck that piece of shit stadium, and the way you raped an entire city to get it. Fuck the smug investment bankers and lawyers who are the only people who can afford to go and love that fact. And fuck the old Yankee Stadium too. That place was a toilet.

Fuck your secret love for the Red Sox. Why don't you two go hump in an alley and get it over with? Fuck AJ Burnett's stupid necklace. Fuck JackO. Fuck Jeter. Fuck Michael Kay. Fuck Suzyn Waldman. Fuck Bob Sheppard. Fuck the whole of you. When I saw that Al Gore movie and he showed downtown Manhattan flooded by polar ice caps, I fucking applauded.

And fuck your championship. Congrats. You bored us for an incredible 27th time. Take your ugly-ass rings and stick them in the Canyon of Heroes residing between your legs.

I'm sure I've missed someone. Yours in the comments.