Time for your weekly edition of the Deadspin Funbag. Got something on your mind? Email the Funbag. Today, we’re covering accents, WAGs, gym rats, poop, and more. Your letters:
Oatmeal raisin or oatmeal chocolate chip? I think the former is the greatest cookie ever but my co-workers say the latter. Am I fucked up or are they?
What about oatmeal raisin chocolate chip? Must the raisin and the chocolate chip be mutually exclusive? Can they not live in harmony forever and ever with the occasional walnut bit dropping by for a three-way?
As someone who believes that chocoholism is a disease, I favor any cookie that has the addition of chocolate chips. I'm the kind of person that, after eating a chocolate-free dessert, will demand a SECOND dessert that has chocolate in it. I am Cathy. When my wife scans a dessert menu and is like, "Ooooh! Mango tart!" I tell her to piss off. We're having the molten lava chocolate jizz cake and that's final. So I'll always pick the cookie that has chocolate in it. Not that I don't see the value in an oatmeal raisin cookie on its own. It's good. But why NOT add a cup of Tollhouse morsels to that fucker while you're at it? YOU HAVE ONLY CHOCOLATE TO GAIN.
In fact, just to start a fight, here's how I would rank the world's cookies:
1. Chocolate chip (this one, specifically)
3. Thin mints
5. Monster cookies (peanut butter, m&ms, oatmeal, possibly horse parts, etc)
8. Florentines (chocolate-dipped only, please)
9. Fudge Stripes
10. Oatmeal raisin
11. Ginger snaps
12. Berger cookie
15. Peanut butter cookie
16. Sugar cookie
17. Black and white cookie
19. Nilla wafers
21. Madelines (Are you a cookie or are you a cake? YOU MUST CHOOSE)
1,006. Fortune cookies
1,006 (tie). Biscotti. God, women go batshit over biscotti. EVERY cookie tastes good dunked in liquid, honey.
I'm sure I've forgotten some important entries here, so please dive into the comments and tell me what an awful person I am.
I'm 35. I work in marketing. I have no connections to the NBA. If tomorrow I was given Michael Jordan's basketball talent, could I make it to the NBA? How would I go about doing it? Join a big city Y league? Try and make a name at the Rucker? Harass any agent who will listen? What would be the surest way from total obscurity to the NBA?
The NBA D-League held open tryouts last September, so I would imagine they'd do it again next fall. But that means you would have to wait around for the next five months before someone noticed you. What you'd have to do in the meantime is make a highlight reel. You'd have to get a friend who's decent with a camera, head to a pickup court where they'd actually let you play instead of making you wait there like an asshole for three hours while you feebly hold your hand up and ask, "I got next?" Then you'd have to OWN the court, pulling off all kinds of crazy tomahawks and windmills and dunks from the three-point line and what not. Then your friend hops on Final Cut and edits together all your kickass moves, all scored to just the loudest, shittiest hip hop song possible. Maybe an old, obscure No Limit song. Something truly awful.
Then you'd have to post the thing on YouTube and blitz social media with it, telling all your Facebook friends OMG WHITE JORDAN! Then your friends would either A) Ignore you, B) Comment on how amazed they were by the video despite secretly being too lazy to watch more than three seconds of it, or C) Watch it and say, "Hey that guys looks famili... IT'S YOU! HOLY SHIT!" I'd wager maybe one of your friends actually watches it. Then you'd send the video to us and to The Big Lead and to BleachHuffington RePostFeed and hope that they post it with the headline "The Most Amazing Basketball Video You Will EVER See." Then you'd look at the post and see the first 900 comments were all, "FAKE. Consider this the last time I visit your site!"
Then, you'd have to hope that some shady-as-shit agent (or worse, a manager with no actual agent certification) sees the video, believes it, calls you up, tries to sign you to an onerous contract in which 150 percent of all your income is put in a trust in his name, and then gets you a private workout with some peripheral NBA human being like, I dunno, John Lucas. Then you'd have to pray that Lucas could persuade some GM or living scout to watch you work out. Then the scouts would come to your private workout, watch you dunk, measure your height, say you aren't "long" enough, and then never call you again.
That's how it would go down. Your potential would be utterly wasted. In fact, you could now count yourself among the five million men out there who tell friends and family that they totally would have made the NBA if not for politics. No one would believe you. Eventually, you'd go work for the circus, develop an Oxy habit, and then kill yourself. I'm so sorry, man.
I never use the word "ma'am" but always find myself saying it when I'm talking to a woman who has a southern accent. What's up with that? I caught myself using it with the Geico insurance rep on the phone the other day. I'm from the northeast and have never lived in the south. Do other people do that?
Well, of course you did that around a Southern lady. You were probably hoping to sweet talk her on the phone while trying to save 15 percent or more on your car insurance. You have to go all out during this kind of courting ritual. Unfortunately, the joke's on you. That was an Indian woman coached to talk with a Southern accent to keep you on the phone longer.
If you're weak-minded, as I am, it takes very little to affect certain languages and dialects. I've lived in Maryland for a few years and I now have a full-fledged Maryland accent. I say "row-ood" instead of "road." That's pretty much the extent of the Maryland accent, but still. It's amazing how easy it is to slip into those little affectations. When I got back from England after a semester abroad, I said "cheers" instead of "thanks" and all my friends HATED me for it.
People like to fit in when they go places, so it makes sense if you're in the Deep South if you feel compelled to say "sir" or "ma'am." You don't want them mistaking you for a YANKEE and then killing you. And when you get back, that affectation is a kind of linguistic keepsake—a humblebrag, a way of telling people that you went somewhere fancy and exotic. "I'll have a pint, which is what they say when they order a beer IN ENGLAND, WHICH IS WHERE I JUST CAME FROM." It's the main reason everyone hates Madonna and Gwyneth Paltrow.
Let's say some magical being - a wizard, an alien, Jesus, Alien Jesus, whatever - puts a curse on your penis. Now, every time you masturbate, you must finish into a cup and down your byproduct like a slimy Jello Shot. If you do not do this within five minutes, you'll go impotent for three months. Do you masturbate less, or just start bringing Dixie cups everywhere?
Dixie cups ahoy. You can get used to the taste of ANYTHING if it's required. If you're starving in the desert and someone offers you beets—which are disgusting—you're not turning them down. Same principle here. I'd make sure to bring a cup, do my business into the cup, add water, swirl it around a bit, and then gulp it down. Much better than sucking ejaculate out of a tissue, or fishing out cocksnot from the toilet. No, thank you.
How much would you pay to be able to know the exact length of your turds? I just took a dump and I could have sworn the turd was at least 2-feet long, but I feel like I can't brag without facts to back me up. I think I would spend at least $100 for this power.
I think $100 is a bit rich. If it were an app, you'd get sticker shock. Remember: most people blanch at paying, like, $2 for an app. I know I do. I'll happily waste $2 at the 7/11 buying pork rinds and Ferrero Rocher, but when I have to pay two bucks for a potentially life altering app? FUCK YOU INTERNET, MAKE IT FREE. It makes no sense. I would pay maybe $10 for the app. Tops. Frankly, I prefer imagining the length of the poop in my head. I don't want the app to ruin the fantasy for me. That shit was eight feet long and no one can tell me otherwise!
What would have happened if one of the random former players (Seriously, "Harvard's highest drafted player" was the best the Seahawks could do????) that no one remembers used his 15 seconds at the podium to lambast the NFL for not doing enough for former players health benefits/concussions? Would ESPN's broadcast have gone black and the Ginger Hammer's Gestapo thrown a bag over him and beat him up and thrown him in the Hudson? Would he have escorted him off the stage and had one of his henchmen announce the pick and then next year's 2nd round presenters are all Verizon Fan Zone winners who will get booed for just winning a contest?
It's funny because Wayne Chrebet was the guy the Jets trotted out to announce the Geno Smith pick on Friday. Chrebet suffers from memory loss and bouts of depression due to numerous concussions he received throughout his career. But Chrebet wasn't about to hold up Geno Smith's moment because GRRRRR SCRAPPY TEAM PLAYER GRRRRR. He's a good soldier, one of the army of damaged former players who say they'd do it all over again after listing out all their maladies: arm palsy, spinal frost, stooly urine, etc. The NFL is like an overbearing father: You want to stand up to him, but you just can't bring yourself to do it.
Frankly, it would hard for anyone in that kind of public situation to go off script. You may have your little diatribe all planned out, the way I'm sure lots of people want to chew out the President when they come face-to-face with him. But then the moment comes and you're too overwhelmed. Everyone's watching. There are bright lights. You consider whether or not it's kind of rude to seize the moment for yourself. That tends to cow most people. It's easier to just say the pick and leave than it is to kick up a fuss.
If Chrebet, or someone like him, had spoken up, I can tell you exactly what would have happened. One: He would have been allowed to talk. Two: The NFL would have immediately planted an angle in various media outlets to undermine what was said. You'd see shit on PFT like, "Chrebet ruins Smith's happy moment," or, "Chrebet may have violated contract terms with extended riff," or, "Chrebet jeopardizes Hofstra Hall of Fame chances?!" That's how the NFL works. They hold enough sway with meathead America to shape their opinions as needed.
By the way, I'm not feeling this whole "new guest announcer every pick!" format to the draft. We're two years away from Seth Meyers hosting this thing and having formal celebrity presenters wearing ugly outfits. THIS IS NOT AN AWARDS SHOW IT MEANS SOMETHING DAMMIT.
Tony Parker allegedly slept with Brent Barry’s wife. Jason Richardson allegedly fathered a child with Steve Nash’s wife. My question is how many GF’s/wives of teammates do you think Michael Jordan slept with?
All of them. He's just that competitive. He probably didn't even LIKE banging John Paxson's wife. He just did it to do it. At any given moment, there are two NBA or NFL teammates with a running wager to see who can have sex with the most WAGs. SPOILER ALERT: Antonio Cromartie isn't losing that bet.
What is your stance on the expression "By Far and Away"" Sports announcers seem to use this hideous expression most, when 'By Far' and 'Far and Away' isn't strong enough (example: Lebron James is by far and away the best player in the NBA right now!) It causes an instant physical reaction in me akin to defecating sharp chunks of tungsten-carbide. Choose a friggin' lane! It's either one or the other, but not both.
It's true. It's like a "Before And After" puzzle on Wheel of Fortune. Any day now, sportscasters will start combining even more cliches:
- "He's a real nine-to-five-tool player"
- "He can flat-outstanding play"
- "If you're looking at a team like the Denver Broncos"
- "There's no question about this guy's intangibles"
- "That's just a great NATIONAL FOOTBALL PLAY."
How much would you pay, per minute, to have total access to your back for pimple popping purposes?
About the same amount I'd pay for a poop-measuring app.
Turned on the TV just now and witnessed Chris Mullin being called a "gym rat" for the six-hundredth time. Then it hit me - it's absolutely the go-to term for old white broadcasters when dealing with talented (even Hall of Fame-level) white basketball players. You never, ever, ever hear a black guy being called a "gym rat". Michael Jordan could've qualified as a gym rat. If we're going to use the shitty term, at least make it equal opportunity.
It's awful. It's a staple of any Sports Illustrated puff piece about a gritty young scrapper. "Bobby asked Coach for the keys to the old warehouse, then hung an old coffee can rim up and cut out a net from his younger brother's cloth diapers. Then he shot 700 free throws a day!" Well, la-di-fucking-da, Mr. Gym Rat. Go watch TV for an hour and settle down.
When I was a kid, I had a plastic pumpkin that I used to huck against the wall for hours at a time every day (and by hours, I mean 15 minutes, tops). And I had read so many gym rat stories by then that I was thinking, "If I just do this 50,000 times a day, I'll become a major league pitcher!" That was wrong, of course. Those profiles never include an analysis of the gym rat's fast twitch muscles, or any other physiological proof of superior athleticism, because that would harm the myth. I wish there had been a tasteful piece by Dan Jenkins telling me to not waste my time.
Meathead sports fans want their players to WORK. They nod in douchetastic approval when they hear that Tom Brady is the first guy to the practice facility and the last one to leave. They don't want you to be a pro athlete and actually ENJOY it. Meanwhile, if you've ever worked a real job, you know that the number of hours you work is virtually unrelated to how well you do your job. If you can do your job quickly and efficiently, who gives a fuck if you're the first to leave? That's how the rest of the universe works (or should, at least). God forbid an athlete not make a superficial display of how many man-hours he's put into fixing the hitch in his swing. I'm gonna build a giant GYM RAT TRAP. It'll have a spring that can crush bones and it'll use a Welker jersey as bait.
If Daniel Day Lewis had to play a drug addict, let's say like crackhead Christian Bale in "The Fighter," do you think, as a method actor, he'd get addicted to crack, meth, etc. to get into character?
I promise you there have been any number of dipshit actors who have done that kind of "research" to get into character. And I bet they were really proud of themselves for doing it. "No one's ever gone THIS DEEP before. I'll win 10 Oscars for this one film alone! AND I'll get to smoke crack!" Meanwhile, Robert Downey, Jr. has probably pulled that trick six dozen times.
Anyway, I think Daniel Day-Lewis would experiment with drugs in order to get into character, which is why he's probably avoided playing crackheads. He'd rather go make shoes or whatever the hell it is he does in his spare time. "I'm good at acting, but my REAL passion is for woodblock printing." Whatever, dipshit. ACT MOAR PLEEEZ.
When I was in my early 20s, I wrote a bunch of terrible screenplays, and I remember I had the same idea that every other 20-year-old dipshit has. "I'm gonna make a REAL movie with hardcore sex in it! Like, it'll be a normal movie, but the actors will FUCK! Because that'll be real and shit. Totally revolutionary!" You can be fairly certain these days that any indie movie that features hardcore sex will be god awful. But oh, I bet every single one of those directors thinks they're were kickstarting a revolution.
I got into an argument with a friend of mine the other day about whether or not animals enjoyed sex or if they did it solely for the purpose of procreation. His opinion was, "Yes, of course they love it just like humans do." However, my argument was that there is no way animals get the same satisfaction from sex and orgasm like humans do because if that were true, wouldn't animals be having wild animal doggy style sex in the streets all day every day? They seem to only do it when the bitch is in heat.
According to this article, mammals enjoy sex, and even have orgasms. That's important to know when you hump your dog.
It makes sense for animals to like knocking paws, when you think about it. An orgasm is nature's way of luring you into reproduction. It's the bait. And birth control is your way of going SUCK IT, NATURE! I AIN'T FALLING FOR YOUR SHIT. So there's no reason that other mammals wouldn't have that built-in incentive to procreate.
Down the evolutionary chain, that incentive probably isn't as prevalent. When an amoeba breaks off a pseudopod, it's not like, "YES YES YES OH GOD FUCK YES (bites lip)." You have to have a more advanced brain to get the full sex experience.
Is it just me, or has the consummate "I have a migraine" excuse gotten out of control these days? Apologies to all those legit migraine-sufferers out there, but this shit has gone too far. My wife has gotten to the point of pulling the migraine card to get out of watching loud action movies when it's my turn to pick... at home no less. Can the people at BIG THERMOMETER come up with a migraine validity test or something?
Oof, the self-diagnosed migraine. Those people can burn in hell. A migraine is not, "Oh, this movie is too loud. I have a migraine!" A migraine is when you feel like someone has taken a glass cutter, opened your skull with it, and then taken out your brain to practice slapshots. A real migraine involves going into a dark room and shooting up a vial of morphine to knock you out so that the thing goes away. That's a migraine. A migraine is not just you having a regular-ass headache.
People use the migraine excuse now to get out of playdates and cocktail parties and work and all kinds of commitments. Unless you have written proof of your diagnosis, or you have to wear a motorcycle helmet at all times to keep the pain at bay, I'm NEVER believing you. You're a dick and I don't want to have brunch with you anyway.
What is the ratio for number of times you've encountered empty ketchup bottles to a full ketchup bottle? For me it has to be like 12:1. Whether at home, a restaurant or cookout, the ketchup is always empty. I find myself violently shaking the bottle and squirting it 30 times to get enough ketchup for two french fries or one bite of hot dog. But those times when I reach for the ketchup and it's full are very satisfying.
My kids waste ketchup like it's running tap water. They make POOLS of the shit on their plate for one goddamn nugget. And so when it's finally my turn to get the ketchup, I get 50 bottle farts before anything comes out. Then I shake the thing like a paint can and try again, and then I get spritzed with ketchup mist. It's awful. I want one of those giant ketchup dispensers like they have at Five Guys. You push a lever and a pint of ketchup comes out. It's really gratifying.
By the way, the ketchup cups at Five Guys need to be 60 times larger. They give you a pen cap to fill. I'm walking back to the table trying to balance six mini-cups of ketchup in my hands. I want a BARREL for my ketchup. There can't be enough of it on my fries. Ever.
On occasion, I have poops that blister paint. Absolutely terrible smells. Last night I was at a restaurant, and had one of these poops. One toilet bathroom. I did the deed, and opened the door to a guy waiting. Do I give a heads up, say "Sorry man", or look at the floor in shame?
The latter. Better yet, walk out with your head held high, not even acknowledging what just happened. NEVER give the next guy the "I'm sorry, bro" bit. It's a bathroom. People do bathroom things in there. Everyone should know that going in. Anyone who expresses shock or outrage when a bathroom smells like someone went to the bathroom in it deserves to be nailed with 3,000 cubic feet of methane gas.
Time for your email of the week. It's about rats.
During my senior year of college I lived in an old shitty house that provided little protection from the outside world. At some point during the year, my roommates and I started noticing nibbles in our bread products. Being morons, we decided that mysterious nibbles were a result of us drunkenly going to town on bread after a long night at the bars. A couple days later I hear a screech and see my roommate standing on the table scared shitless because he just saw a rat run by. I put two and two together and realize that it's a rodent that's been eating the bread and not a blacked out version of me. The first thing I do is vomit because I've been sharing a loaf of bread with a rat. The second thing I do is grab every weapon in the house and go on a hunt for this fucking rat. I made a lap around the house, got bored, and decided to set up some traps rather than exert the effort to actively hunt. Later that night I hear a loud thud in the circuit breaker box (this house had its circuit breaker in the kitchen). I'm positive that this is the rat and I tell my roommates to arm themselves because we have this fucker cornered. As I stated before, we're all morons when it comes to rat killing so I grabbed a textbook, roommate 1 grabbed deer antlers, and roommate 2 picked up a big ass printer still in its box. I open up the circuit breaker box and this fat rat flopped out onto the ground and hauls ass out of the kitchen before I can even comprehend what just occurred. The last line of defense is roommate 2 with the printer. With perfect hand eye coordination, he dropped the printer and crushed Speedy Gonzalez. VICTORY! Or so we thought...
Further inspection of the circuit breaker box revealed that this rat had GIVEN BIRTH. The orginal rat got knocked up, took refuge in our cicuit breaker, carb loaded on bread, and then gave birth. We were one week away from having a full blown infestation (also disposing of newborn rat babies is horrible). The story doesn't end here . Turns out, daddy rat was still at large and he decided to take refuge in my room (luckily I was out of town for the week). Rather than grabbing a printer and going in my room, my roommates called an expert. The exterminator places a rat trap with peanut butter outside my door, and two days later there lies a decapitated rat. We killed an entire rat family, and I was forced to spend the rest of the year in a room that was forever unclean.
Drew Magary writes for Deadspin and Gawker. He's also a correspondent for GQ. Follow him on Twitter @drewmagary and email him at firstname.lastname@example.org. You can also order Drew's new book, Someone Could Get Hurt, through his homepage.