The first round of the NBA playoffs is almost over. ONLY THREE WEEKS LEFT UNTIL ROUND 2! Anyway, this is just about the time of the season where I start paying attention and stuff. And while my basketball knowledge is essentially a blank Aqua Doodle, there is one thing I wanted to mention about LeBron.
Title or not, I don't think there's much chance that guy leaves Cleveland. I think David Stern implored James to delay announcing his intentions for as long as possible so that Knicks fans would be dumb enough to buy tickets for next year or something. I think all the talk about him going somewhere else is mostly wishful thinking, a hope that he'll do something Earth-shattering, rather than choose the relatively dull (but not to Cavs fans) option of staying put. If LeBron stays in Cleveland, the whole thing becomes a non-story. If he goes, we get to spend months and months and months talking about how he fucked Cleveland over and all that crap. It's a far more intriguing endgame (again, not to Cavs fans), which is why it's fun to picture it.
Knicks fans may need LeBron, but the city of New York doesn't. If LeBron spurns the Knicks, New York won't shrivel down to nothing. It'll just keep on being New York, with the same shitty basketball team they've had for a decade now. But Cleveland. Cleveland would fucking implode if LeBron left. That's nothing you don't know, but I always think that it's better to be needed than to be wanted. LeBron's a hometown boy, and I strongly doubt he's eager to become Art Modell with a 16-inch cock (hawt).
Daydreaming is something that comes up a lot in this here funbag. And while we may not talk sports here much, sports serve as the launching pad for roughly a third of all male daydreams (sex and guns the other 66 percent). Not only do I picture myself as a pro athlete or coach, but I'll often picture myself as someone ELSE who is currently an athlete or coach. Perhaps you've done this as well. You have the fantasy, and you're not you in it. You're LeBron. All of him. You've completely infiltrated his body and can now pilot him like you're inside an AT-AT. I do this all the time, and I've totally done it with LeBron, where I can dunk and strut and score quality tang and all that.
And I thought of this scenario. Let's say the Cavs win a title. No given, obviously, what with the bum elbow and all. Let's just say they somehow end their season at home, win or lose. The following will never happen, but I think it would be bitchin' all the same: At the end of the game, I (as LeBron) take the mic to address the crowd. I have my extension with the Cavs written up and ready to go (I'm sure this was already done before he was even drafted). I have my agent hand me the papers and I hold them up for the home crowd. I tell them I've made my decision, and then I sign that shit right in front of everyone.
Again, this won't happen. But if it did, it would fucking rock. If it came right after winning a title, on the podium, there wouldn't be enough mops to get the collective jizz off the court. I would really like to see that happen. A spontaneous signing bukkake in the arena. That couldn't happen if LeBron signs with the Clippers.
Anyway, your letters:
Have you ever had that wipe where when you go to release it, the TP becomes stuck to your ass? I never know what to do in this situation: Do I try to dislodge it with my hand? Do I go for another wipe? Do I try to wiggle it out?. Always a conundrum for me.
Oh dear. The dreaded Polish Bear Trap. (Not actually a slang term.) I'm thinking of those times when you're wiping and your asshole chooses to "deblossom," pulling in a small amount of the paper with it, trapping it there. Then, you must bear down, get your asshole to "reblossom," and then gently tug the paper back out. This happens to those of us who (you guessed it) wipe just bit too hard. I'm extremely guilty of this. I want no poop residue leftover, so I really dig in that fucker, to the point where I'm pretty much wiping the inside of my rectum. This is probably going overboard. Fun to play tug of war with your asshole for half a second, though.
Watching Casino today got me thinking: What is the worst movie death of all time? Unwittingly digging your own grave and then getting beat with a bat and buried alive has to be towards the top. The smothering/face stabbing in Inglourious Basterds is also pretty gruesome.
I'm terrified of being buried alive, so the end of Casino or the end of the original French version of The Vanishing, when the dude is buried alive and then just left there… both those things horrify me. I would also not want to be consumed by The Blob. I find blobs very scary. Any Rick Majerus basketball camp attendee will concur with me. And being stabbed in the shower, natch.
Let us also not forget the fate of Boba Fett, who learned a new definition of pain and suffering as he was slowly digested over a thousand years. (UPDATE: The gay books where Fett lives so don't fucking count.) I hate the idea of being conscious enough to be like OH DEAR GOD I AM BEING DIGESTED! AHHHHHH!!! Also, his character got completely buttfucked by the writers of that movie. He's the most badass character in the whole trilogy, and just gets pitched into a bottomless pit. Bullshit. Any death where you're fully conscious of what the hell is going on is bad. And when you don't get to be a martyr or die in front of a crowd. Consider these:
RAPED TO DEATH BY MALCOLM MCDOWELL (I'll Sleep When I'm Dead)
BASHED TO DEATH (Irreversible)
TORN APART BY ZOMBIES (Shaun Of The Dead)
CONSUMED BY PILE OF GIANT ANTS (Indiana Jones 4)
THROWN OFF A BALCONY BY NAZIS WHILE CONFINED TO A WHEELCHAIR (The Pianist)
SAWED TO DEATH (Saw movies, I presume)
I don't like any of those things, and those are merely the tip of the iceberg when it comes to horrid movie deaths. I'll take the Braveheart death, thank you very much.
How much fun would it be to travel cross-country with your best friend in a minivan that's being hauled by a semi. With a minivan each of you would have your own bench seat or reclining seat, but it would also offer the cargo space for plenty of coolers so you could bombed along the way. The more you think about this road trip, the better it gets...
Wouldn't it be better to just hire a driver and take a road trip in a rock star tour bus? I went to a NASCAR race two weeks ago, and they took me inside the motor coach of one of the drivers. It's fucking insane. It's a private jet on the ground. There's beer and flat screens and bedrooms for fucking and comfy couches and a fully stocked kitchen. I had an erection the full 10 minutes I was inside. It was so nice, they wouldn't let me wear shoes inside. That is what you want, my friend. You want the HOME SWEET HOME bus.
One thing about semis: At this NASCAR race, I also got to take a nap in the cab part of a semi. There's a whole bed in the back of these things, complete with climate control and TV and everything. It's like staying at one of those Japanese tube hotels. It's very cozy. If I were a single truck driver, I'd bring a new hooker back there every hour. Semis are fucking awesome.
An illustration our professor showed us in History of America depicting Nazi Shark after sinking the USS Reuben James in 1941.
Today I was driving into the office and for like 3 miles was a Boar's Head truck was following me, and all I could think about was pastrami. If you could rob one non-currency holding truck and get away with it, what would you choose? I think i would have to go with some kind of beer. I've also thought about like an Exxon/Mobil truck because, hell, free gas for a while, but fuck it, beer is more important.
No, it isn't. The average tanker truck can hold 9,000 gallons of gas. If you have a small car with a 12-gallon tank, that's 750 full tanks of gas. If you get gas every week, that's roughly five fucking years of free gas at your disposal. You'd save nearly $30,000. Which could, in turn, pay for a fuckload of beer. Maybe a whole truckload of it. THAT'S SCIENCE.
Other than gas, I'd want to hijack an ice cream truck. Fuck you, kids. We're all out of EVERYTHING.
Hot Carl Weathers:
I had a heated discussion with my roommates today whilst watching Harry Potter. Say the wizarding world WAS FUCKING REAL (I wish. Accio sixpack, bitch.) and you were extended an invite to attend Hogwarts...but there was a catch. Before your prepubescent future wizard self could step through Platform 9 and 3/4 ... you had to suck a dick. Not just a little knob like you blew in prep school, but a throbbing, veiny, black mamba man dick.
The general consensus was "Fuck. Yes." with answers ranging from "I'd enchant someone else to suck the dick" to "I'd suck the fuck out of that dong under an invisibility cloak."
I'd suck the dick happily. You couldn't get that dick in my mouth fast enough. I'd suck the dick with my parents watching. I'd work the shaft and cup the balls. The royal treatment. It's not even a contest. All I have to do is suck a dick and I can fly and shoot lightning bolts with my wand and shit? Give me that dick YESTERDAY.
I always find it funny that questions like these always include the supposedly horrible obstacle of sucking a dick. "You get a million bucks, BUT YOU GOTTA SUCK A DICK." Like that's the absolute WORST endgame for you. It's a dick. It won't hurt ya. It's not like getting beaten with bats and then buried alive to get the wizarding powers. That's much worse. Sucking a dick is downright pleasant in comparison.
I wonder if gays ask each other these questions, but their endgame is something way hetero.
JULIAN: Oh, Lance?
JULIAN: Question for you. A genie pops out and grants you a magic carpet.
LANCE: Is it an Armenian one? High quality?
JULIAN: Oh yes. But there's a catch. To get the carpet, YOU HAVE TO EAT A PUSSY.
JULIAN: Yes! A big, sloppy pussy! Totally untrimmed! With the armpit smell and everything!
LANCE: Omigod. And my friends would know that I ate this pussy? I don't know if I could do that.
So to get to the point — long story short in my office yesterday a person had their finger SEVERED. Was pretty serious, lost up to the first joint on the pinky, blood sprayed everywhere, etc. But what makes this crazy is this wasn't a mailroom cutting accident. See, our bathroom doors have a tendency to slam shut. And this person when walking out of the bathroom apparently dropped something, bent down and their fatal mistake — braced themselves by grabbing the door frame. Door slams shut on the hand — PINKY LOST. Blood is spraying, there's a piece of finger on the floor, bone is exposed, etc.
So my question to you, Drew is this.... If you are in that bathroom taking a dump when that occurs...WHAT DO YOU DO? Do you just get up, no wipe, and run out there? Do you go to your happy place and finish? I have no idea what I would do but every choice sounds horrible.
Jesus. I'd rather be forced to pick a child to send to a concentration camp. Let's consider the options. Option 1: Finish the poop, which means you risk losing the finger. I assume you'd apply some sort of makeshift tourniquet to stanch the blood flow, and then you'd finish. But what if it was your RIGHT pinky that was severed? Or worse, you right index finger? So now you have to wipe with the bloodied hand, which could cause infection and perhaps gangrene, causing you to possibly lose the hand. Option 2: Leave the area mid-turtle and get treated with a load in your pants. Option 3: Kill yourself.
First thing: You guy should fucking sue his work. What workplace has a bathroom door that doubles as a finger guillotine? There's a large cash settlement to be had there. And should you suffer the indignity of going through all this with a load in your pants, that's emotional damages. MORE MONEY. I assume this is how the law works. Crapping in your pants gets you extra money. So I say option 2. Hospitals are more than used to cleaning up asses.
I've heard that you can survive on only Guinness and oranges. I think it's possible, because the oranges would not only provide sustenance, but also fend off the ever-present threat of scurvy. And Guinness has a bunch of vitamins. (In Ireland, they used to give a pint of Guinness to people after they gave blood because of all the iron in it.) Possible? Also, I'm not sure I'd want to be the guinea pig. What's worse for life expectancy, this for a month or Supersize Me for ten days?
A quick Google search suggests you would also need milk in the diet for calcium. Otherwise, you turn into Larry King or something. Oranges and Guinness are not exactly a profile in matching flavors. I'm never like, "Hey, know what would be nice to pair with the hearty Irish stout? Citrus fruits." Throwing milk in there just makes it worse. I'd rather do the Supersize Me thing for 10 days, because I totally think that fucker was faking most of his symptoms.
I'm a 37-year-old only child. I have wondered since I was about 10 or so if my parents had any kids before me that, you know, didn't make it. Am I the only one that thinks these things?
Well shit, now it's all I can think about. THANKS A LOT, MISTER. Just ask your folks. Either they'll tell you, or they'll recoil with such horror that you'll KNOW little Angus Jr. never made past the first trimester.
I wonder, if you had a miscarriage but you already had a name chosen for the baby, do you stick with that name for the next baby? You can't, right? That's a fucking cursed name now. I wonder if anyone just stuck with the same name for the next kid. You were really the SECOND Jay Rockefeller! A knockoff! That would fuck me up.
Do you find yourself twiddling your thumbs or flicking your feet together when you call the pizza man? I wish I was that happy when I called my girlfriend.
I used to twirl the phone cord (when they existed), like I was talking to a girl. If I know we're ordering takeout tonight, I become a fucking insane person. The takeout is all I think about all day. After breakfast, I will get out the takeout menus and scan them all, rereading each one carefully. I'll try and narrow the list of candidates down to four or five, then ask the Mrs. for input. I'll also be sure to try and steer her to my preferred option for the evening (never works). And she'll be like, "What are you looking at menus for? It's 10AM." And I'm like THIS IS FUCKING DINNER. IT'S IMPORTANT. WE NEED TO DECIDE TO GO TO MOBY DICK RIGHT NOW.
In a drunken (blacked out) moment, I hooked up with a coworker. We didn't bang, but clothes were taken off. Is there any way that when he sees me around the office now he DOESN'T picture me naked? Ugh.
Hell, no. You are now a permanent occupant in his spank bank, and he can summon your naked body in his mind any time he wishes! He doesn't even have to suck a dick to do it! MEN ARE SCUM! Even if you get a job somewhere far away, there will still be nights where he's gonna be like, "Jamie! Man, I saw her tits! WOOHOO!!!!" I'm really sorry about this. I suggest drinking till black out to perish the thought. You might even get lucky with a co-worker if you do. And wouldn't that be nice?
The flipside of this, of course, is that I'd gladly pay money to know people of the opposing gender were fantasizing about me naked while at the office. I'd go wild to know that.
Finally, time for yet another GREAT MOMENT IN POOP HISTORY. Reader Rob VD submits this story I call POOPATAR:
Years ago, two friends of mine in the Mountain View, CA, area got an apartment together. It was a male and a female, not attached romantically in any way. The girl was pretty cool but the guy was just... off. He'd been homeschooled in a tiny town somewhere in the Sierras or something by some pretty serious God-fearing parents and had never really been socialized or taught how to be a functional member of society. For a while, the pairing worked fairly well, but a few months into it, I witnessed the following exchange between them.
Their downstairs neighbors had been kind of assholes, calling the cops when they had the television on too loud, calling the landlord and saying the two of them were too loud when they climbed the stairs to their apartment, things like that. So, the two of them had decided to be assholes back, doing things like playing loud industrial rock until 10pm exactly (the common thought was that 10pm is the magical hour after which you can be charged with disturbing the peace, I never bothered to find out if it was true or not) and blocking their cars in. They were laughing about their combined efforts to piss off their neighbors when the guy offered this up:
"I wonder if they've noticed I've been shitting in their garden for a week!"
Cue everyone else present: "Ha ha—wait, what?"
Unfortunately, that was only the tip of the shitberg.
It turns out he had a serious problem with indoor plumbing. Like, he hated it. It was his irrational opinion that indoor plumbing was just somehow insulting. It had something to do with his being used to outhouses in his childhood. When the two had moved into their apartment, he'd taken to shitting in plastic shopping bags and then taking them out to throw away in the dumpsters out back. However, when their admittedly-juvenile feud with their neighbors had erupted, he'd somewhere along the line decided to take revenge upon them as nature intended: by providing their garden with fresh human fertilizer, straight from his colon. His nocturnal pooping activities combined with his previous bagshitting and his refusal, in the face of serious criticism and disbelief, to divulge where he peed, naturally led to a quick breakdown in domestic bliss and the two parted ways quickly. He was never seen again after he moved out, but damned if those of us who were there for that tale didn't always remember the Midnight Pooper.
Before I go, a couple things. One: The funbag is backed up. I read every email that comes in, and I wouldn't do it any other way. But right now I'm, oh…
/looks at folder
1,041 emails behind. I'll read them all. But I would strongly encourage you to not submit to the funbag until June. Your email will be 1,042nd in line if you choose otherwise.
Also, reader Jon asks you DC folks to attend this comedy night in support of homeless job training. Tonight at the Hookery in DC. You should, like, go and stuff.