Time for your Thursday edition of the Deadspin Funbag. Email me here or submit your questions via Twitter. Today, we're covering crackers, gasoline, belts, boils, sexual misconceptions, and more.

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


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

Onto your letters.


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

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


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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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


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

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

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


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

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


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

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


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

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

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

WIFE: Did you say something?

ME: Me? Nope. Nothing here!

WIFE: Okay. (leaves)

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


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

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


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

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

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

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


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

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


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

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


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

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


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


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

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


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

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


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

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


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

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



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


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

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


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

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


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

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


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

HIM: Do you even know what pussy means?

ME: Yeah, it means a wussy.

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

ME: Oh, wow.

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

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


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

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



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

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


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

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


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

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


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

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

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


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

(takes out space lube)


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

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



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

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


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


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

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


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


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

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


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

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

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


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


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

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


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

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


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


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

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


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

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

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


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

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


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

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

Wide Write:

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

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

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


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

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


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

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

Eugene Chung:

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

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

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


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


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

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


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


Does a blinker in a crowded parking lot signify possession?

Only if you know damn well you got there first.


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

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


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

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

I like cheap ber:

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


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



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

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


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

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


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

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