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50 Words To Tell Your Past Self

Illustration for article titled 50 Words To Tell Your Past Self
FunbagTime for your weekly edition of the Deadspin Funbag. Got something on your mind? Email the Funbag.

Your letters:


So, you're informed that you are going to be transported back to the day after your college graduation, to live your adult life over again. Your memory is going to be wiped, but before transportation you are given an hour (plus internet access) to write down 50 words on a piece of paper that will be sitting on the bedside table when you wake up after transportation. What do you write to your 23-year-old self? Sports results, so you can pull a Biff Tannen? The basic architecture of Facebook? Useful advice for avoiding bad hookups? I think "BUY APPLE SHARES" would certainly be worth 3 words.


I graduated in 1998, so there would have to be some kind of 9/11 warning on there. And it would have to be somewhat specific:

"9/11/01 terrorists will destroy World Trade Center"

That's seven words right there, about the bare minimum needed to get all the info across. You might even need to add WITH PLANES to make it specific. I may not be able to prevent 9/11 with such a warning, but at least I would be able to scream, "I TOLD YOU SO," to people at my office. That has to count for something. Everyone else would be sad that day, but Past You would be full of smug cheer. And kinda sad, but mostly smug.


"Buy Apple Shares" would certainly be worth three words. And I thought about Josh's aforementioned sports results, but it seems like a big waste of words. If you maxed out a credit card and started with a $5,000 bet, you would need 18 guaranteed bets until your money doubled enough times (minus the vig) to make you a billionaire, although you could whittle that number down with prop bets and parlays. So let's say you would need seven or eight results to get rich. You would have to make sure the games listed were specific, like so ...

1999 NFL regular season
Rams 27, Ravens 10
Redskins 27, Jets 20
49ers 24, Titans 22
Rams 34, Browns 3
Browns 21, Saints 16
Bills 34, Redskins 17
Colts 27, Giants 19
Panthers 31, Browns 17

Those are real results of games that were played that season, and since they were all interconference matchups, you know they occurred only one time (adding REGULAR lets your past self know this wasn't a Super Bowl). That's 36 words. So that only gives you four words left. I think I'd rather just include the numbers from a Powerball drawing, like so ...

6/24/00 Powerball drawing

If numbers count as words, that's a mere nine words. You may then want to take the time to warn yourself against making future personal mistakes. DON'T FUCK (insert name of former boyfriend or girlfriend here), or (insert name of former sexual conquest) HAS HERPES, or DON'T SEE PHANTOM MENACE. Stuff like that. There are any number of personal regrets you could probably reverse with your remaining words, which is good because your personal welfare is far more important than preventing, say, the bond market crash. Who has time for that kind of weak shit?


If you're like me and you're happy with your domestic situation, you might advise your past self to MARRY (your wife's name here), just to drive the point home. And if you only have a couple words left after that, they should probably be used on BLACK PRESIDENT.

I've chosen these 50 words mostly as an information dump. I'd be extremely pissed at my future self if he decided to waste those 50 words on some kind of poetic, writerly bullshit. "Time is so precious, and you'll wonder where the days went ..." Oh God, that would be horrible. FUCK YOU, FUTURE ME. You may as well send a note back in time that says YOU'LL BE A FUCKING DIPSHIT. Don't give your past self advice because your past self will be wayyy too drunk and horny to heed it. Your past self will just throw that shit in the trash and call you a pussy. Total waste of time.


By the way, no matter what you write, I guarantee you that your life would probably turn out worse if you got a note from your future self than if you didn't. You might get rich, but you'd probably end up marrying some awful woman, blowing through the cash, getting VD, and living your life in opulent misery. Be glad your future self didn't come to steer you off course. Unless someone shot you dead six years ago and your future self warned you about it. Then I guess it could be useful.


Watching the games this weekend, I'm honestly not convinced it would be any worse if the NFL just went the pickup basketball "call your own fouls" route. And now I can't stop fantasizing about the NFL going insane and doing this for a week.


That's one of the worst parts about this ongoing ref lockout. Players are now begging for flags on virtually every play. Players did this before, of course, especially some of the more annoying ones. But now everyone is doing it on every single down and it's getting out of control. Players are trying to game these refs because they think they're more likely to cave in to pressure (and they're right). As long as the scab refs are out there, players will try to game them any way they can, and means lots of bitching and flopping and shit that will make you yell at the TV, "GET UP YOU FUCKING PUSSY!" It won't be pretty.


If he really wanted to, do you think the President could commit suicide?

He uses pens, right? Just jab one in your own carotid artery and PRESTO! No more president. It annoys me that, if the president ever did such a thing, you'd never know the truth. They'll just say, "The President had a fatal heart attack" and you'll be forced to believe it, which is bullshit. Every day, I wake up wondering if the president will turn up dead. Imagine the news boner that would result from a president dying in office in this day and age. If that day should ever pass, I think my daydreams deserve to know the truth: that the president accidentally choked himself to death while jerking off to redhead porn.



While it's entirely possible this guy's last name is LeBron, I highly doubt it considering he was a Jersey Cowboys fan who probably has never been to Dallas in his entire life... BTW, he and most of the other fairweather Jersey Cowboys fans left before the 3rd quarter of their trashing against the Seahawks was over.

Illustration for article titled 50 Words To Tell Your Past Self

He should be in jail for wearing that.


What would be like if dudes shit out their penis and pissed out their ass? And I guess you'd fart out of your dick too?


All men would take stool softeners to make sure that they didn't have to pass any hard poops through their urethra, which would be remarkably painful. And then the bastards at Big Stool Softener would jack up prices by 300 percent, causing a massive class war between rich men and angry poor men who have to shit out pebbles every third hour of the day. Anti-anxiety pill sales would skyrocket because the fear of urinal splashback would be so crippling. And no man would ever receive a blowjob again. And even if a girl did give you a blowjob, you'd wonder about her loose morals and end up treating her poorly. So be glad that poop doesn't come out of your dick. That would be bad.

Drew Magary writes for Deadspin and Gawker. He's also a correspondent for GQ. Follow him on Twitter @drewmagary and email him at



Whenever I go to 7-11 and I buy something for say $0.99, I hand the guy my dollar and BOLT. Even though it's kind of a dick move, no way I'm going to get stuck with that useless penny.


Sometimes I'll mouth out a weak "keep the change" as I scram for the door so that I don't get stuck with the penny. But if the store you're in has no TAKE A PENNY tray, they've earned your bad manners.

I also have no idea what gets me sales tax and what doesn't. Sometimes I'll pay for something that's 99 cents expecting that to be the final total, only to get boned with a $1.04 total with tax. And I'll never have the extra change needed. I'll always have to break another single, which destroys me. Just a pocketful of nickels charley horsing your thigh for the rest of the fucking day.



So I walk into my work bathroom to drop a bomb. Pretty standard operation—2 urinals, 2 shitters. I sit down at the shitter, and as I'm getting situated I knock the only roll of TP on the ground and it proceeds to roll into the station next to me. The roll is about 3 inches due East of my area (see picture above). I'm still here right now—dare I reach for the roll? On a related note, if you were on the other side of this equation, wouldn't you politely kick the roll back? What the hell.

Illustration for article titled 50 Words To Tell Your Past Self

If someone else is in that stall, I think you should resort to reaching over only after asking the guy next door for a little help. Now, I know how awful that can be. The idea of opening your mouth and saying words to the guy shitting next door is such an awful prospect that many men would rather pull up trou and walk around for the rest of the day with an oatmeal cream pie between their asscheeks. I get it. It sucks. You're right: a good man would kick that roll back over without you having to ask. You might even be able to prompt him by talking to yourself and saying, "SHIT. That was my only roll." It takes a real douche to not get the hint, but offices are full of such douches. They're too busy CRUSHING that toilet to help a man in need.


If the guy next door won't help you out, then you have free rein to reach into his shitspace. Because fuck him. A private toilet stall is a privilege, not a right.


Given the multitude of films and video games on the subject, do you think that we would stand any chance of fending off an alien invasion if it happened in our lifetime?


I think the Earth itself would probably serve as our closest ally if such an invasion were to occur, because the planet's atmosphere, gravity, and microbes could cause any incoming aliens massive problems right from the beginning. The end to War of the Worlds, in which (SPOILER) bacteria end up killing off the aliens for us, is probably more likely than the end to, say, Independence Day, when Will Smith pulled a 4Chan on an alien spacecraft. And I say that while still declaring that War of the Worlds had a fucking terrible ending. "Oh hey, my son was alive and living in a tasteful Boston townhome the entire time!" Awful.

However, as of right now, it is physically impossible for human beings to travel the billions and billions of miles necessary to reach other star systems that may or may not contain intelligent alien life forms, and there's little reason to believe aliens could do likewise. If they were, they will have an understanding and mastery of physics so much greater than ours that they would probably be able to kill us off in a heartbeat. But that would be assuming that they were bloodthirsty savages, which makes little sense because I don't think bloodthirsty savages would be all that interested in unlocking the secrets to quantum physics.


I think, and I hope, that any alien civilization that landed here would have their fucking minds blown. I mean, look around you. Look at what mankind has built here. HOLY SHIT, YOU GUYS. Cars and roads and buildings and flying airplanes and bullet trains and electric carving knifes... we're an impressive civilization. You should be proud of what you've helped accomplished, even if you really didn't do anything. Even if you're like me and have spent the majority of your life enjoying an infrastructure built on the backs of other assholes. Whatever, I BUILT THAT. If we were wiped out by an asteroid and a future race of aliens or humanoids stumbled upon the remnants of our history, they would be flabbergasted. And that's not even factoring in our porn stash. Once they find that ... GREATEST CIVILIZATION IN THE UNIVERSE.



Who wins a 100m dash on a hot summer day: an average American in professional running gear including spikes, or Usain Bolt in full winter outdoor work gear (insulated boots, multiple layers of heavy winter clothing)?


Bolt. It's not even close. Think about whether or not you'd outrun Calvin Johnson if Megatron were in full pads. The boots might give Bolt a few problems, but he's still smoke you.

Andy (again):

Who wins in a 1-mile bike race: average American with top-of-the line racing bike and gear, or Lance Armstrong at his peak on a 10-year-old Wal-Mart bike and wearing in full winter outdoor work gear? He can still have the benefit of whatever steroids he was taking and the average American will be fueled by McDonalds.


This is a little bit closer than Bolt but I think that Armstrong would still find a way to beat you. Remember: Lance Armstrong is a megalomaniacal asshole who would sooner watch his own children die in front of him than lose ANYTHING: a race, a lawsuit, whatever. He's right up there with Michael Jordan in the history of men whose competitiveness we admire when they're achieving great things and we abhor when we have to deal with them on a personal level. Armstrong would find a way to beat you, even if it meant injecting thirty gallons of cord blood before the race. He hates the idea of you winning just that much. And frankly, you should let him win. Let him have his sorry little victory. By being a stable, happy person, you win in the long run.


Worst last name ever, or best?

Illustration for article titled 50 Words To Tell Your Past Self



I live next to a high school freshman and his single mom. He is a typical 14-year-old - typical smart ass but we have cordial relationship

Yesterday I found a note on our lawn - being nosy I read it right away. It was a letter to his girlfriend with explicit sexual language and references to him being drunk and smoking weed.

Should I show his mom what I found, or give it back to him or shut my mouth?

Shut your mouth. You weren't even supposed to read it, so nothing good can come from you telling someone that you did. The mother won't thank you. The mother will scream at you for invading her kid's privacy and for daring to suggest that her sweet little boy is less than an angel. She's a single mom, so that kid is all she's got. She'll claw your face off defending his honor. And then you'll be left without a face and that kid will never sell you weed. Just a shitty situation all around. Besides, showing it to his mom isn't magically gonna make him stop fingerblasting his girl and packing bowls every night. That'll only happen when Daddy finally comes home from prison.


By the way, I have no idea how single parents do it. None. If my wife left me with these kids, I'd shoot myself dead by the second day. Running six ultramarathons in a row would be an easier prospect.


Do boobs sag on the moon?

Not mine!


If you had to choose a professional sport to officiate tomorrow in a game, which would it be based on your knowledge of the game, physical ability, etc? I would choose baseball only because umps don't really have to run and if a coach or player screams at you, you can just boot 'em from the game. SO MUCH POWER.


Plus, if you're the home plate ump, you get to make loud grunting noises without anyone questioning it. When I played little league baseball, there was this one coach's kid that always demanded to be the makeshift home plate ump whenever he wasn't batting, and he'd yell out STEEEEEE! just like Enrico Pallazzo on every pitch he deemed a strike. And you could tell he loved every minute of it. The grunting. The joy of judging another boy's pitch. The fun of showing up a batter with a strike count. The fucker ate that shit up. Coach's kids are the worst.

(By the way, ever get a terrible wiffle ball ump? Drunken bros who insist on umping your wiffle ball game should be lashed.)


So yeah, I'd choose baseball. Basketball and soccer would involve too much running. Football would be too hard. And hockey! Hockey would be the absolute worst. You have to skate, avoid contact, and try to maintain order among goons. I'm surprised NHL refs aren't allowed to carry firearms.


Who bought this terrible window sticker? Was it the daddy or the girl? Which would be worse?

Illustration for article titled 50 Words To Tell Your Past Self

I vote for the dad as the culprit. That phrase should be banned from everything. I hate it. It's fucking horrible. It's an open challenge for a drummer to come defile your daughter. If you have a daughter and you're stupid enough to use this phrase, you deserve the life of angry fisting porn she'll end up engaged in. Much better to have a sign that reads "Daddy's Very Large Daughter Who Is Now A Grown Woman Who Can Make Her Own Decisions And Carries Pepper Spray On Her At All Times."


Dick Utah:

Fact: A BCS-conference head football coach has had sex with a player since 2000. Just run the numbers. Dozens of teams with nearly a hundred players on each, not to mention the strong mentor-mentee relationship... At least one coach has absolutely diddled or gotten railed by a player. The only question is who?


Well, Mike Leach does like being unconventional. And I bet if Chip Kelly made love to one of his players, he'd do it with LIGHTNING SPEED. And I could see Nick Saban punishing a player with some light spanking for not buying into THE PROCESS.

However, I do think it's possible that a head coach hasn't had sex with a player since 2000, only because, as I've said before, head coaches have such little day-to-day contact with individual players. Much more likely that a position coach and a player would have a torrid love affair. After all, you're up late, in a dark room, watching tape. Who's to say your running back coach wouldn't try a little hanky panky? Anything's better than studying tape. Plus, you get bonus playing time out of it! Now that's a win-win.


Also, for some reason, I find it hard to believe and NFL coach and a player would engage in a similar affair, even though it would be just as plausible and, in fact, a bit more appropriate. Imagine if it came out that Tom Coughlin and Eli had fallen in love with each other. That would blow a hole in the universe. I SO BADLY WANT IT TO HAPPEN.


How would you rank the following in order of perceived size: cock, dong, wang, prick, schlong and pecker?


Smallest to biggest: pecker, wang, prick, dong, cock, schlong


I'm expecting my first child in October and am really curious on how I can balance raising her and simultaneously watch a multitude of sports while drinking a lot of beer and hoping my wife doesn't kill me at the same time?


You can't, really. The more you try and retain all your sports viewing habits, the more likely you are to drive yourself batshit insane. Your wife will hate you. You'll resent her. The baby will shit on you right as the winning field goal is being kicked. You have bite the bullet and accept that some of your free time will be compromised. You won't get to watch every NCAA tournament game. Big fucking deal. Not all of those games are winners, you know.

However, all is not lost. You can preserve a good deal of your sports fandom by doing a few simple things:

1. Do your part during non-sports hours. Cook. Clean. Take care of the kid while the wife goes out for a spa day or whatever. Load up on brownie points and then cash them in.


2. Get a DVR if you can afford it. If your child gets onto a reasonable sleeping schedule, that leaves the majority of prime time still free for you.

3. Give your wife reasonable expectations for your sports viewing habits. It helps to be honest and tell the lady, "Watching some of this stuff is super important to me, so I'd like to have Sunday to watch the NFL and two weeks in March to watch the tournament." Women appreciate long-term planning, so letting them know in advance is less likely to get them all pissy at you. And if you've done your part and your wife still isn't happy, then DIVORCE. DIVORCE DIVORCE DIVORCE.


By the way, one baby shouldn't hurt your TV habits too much. They sleep a lot and don't really do anything when they're awake. It's when they grow and you add more kids ot the mix that everything gets a little dicey.

This week's email of the week comes from Bobby Big Wheel. I must warn you in advance... it's the worst thing ever. And now that I've told you that, you must read on.


Bobby Big Wheel:

OK, this is a story of one of my friend's from when she was a camp counselor in Massachusetts. Every year the counselors would take the kids on a trip to Boston, stay in some shitty motel outside of town, and take them on the Freedom Trail and whatnot. Well, two of the counselors, "Zack" and "Caroline," had been hooking up at the time. After they got to the hotel everyone went to their rooms, but Zack and Caroline managed to sneak away and hook up somehow. The next morning the counselors saw Zack and Caroline walk into breakfast. Caroline did not look happy and Zack's face was covered in zits. They wouldn't say what happened, but eventually the truth was pried out.

Zack and Caroline were hooking up and Zack decided to eat Caroline out. When he was done he mentioned how great it tasted and she told him it was because she put a Jolly Rancher in her vagina. So Zack decides to go in for more and find the Jolly Rancher. He thought he found it and he bit down. Caroline let out a scream.

It wasn't a Jolly Rancher, it was an infected wart.

Blood and pus sprayed all over Zack's face. Caroline freaked out and couldn't stop bleeding so they went to the hospital. While Zack was waiting somebody noticed that the infected blood and pus from Caroline's infected wart had messed with his skin and caused him to break out. The doctor fixed Caroline up, gave Zack some ointment for his skin, and sent them back to the hotel.

Oh, and it was a watermelon Jolly Rancher.


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