FunbagTime for your weekly edition of the Deadspin Funbag. Got something on your mind? [Email the Funbag](mailto:funbag.deadspin@gmail.com).   

No time to waste. I got a bachelor party to get to. There's gonna be a grill! And weed! And smores! I'd fist a horse for a smore. Your letters:

Mike:

I am in a dilemma with my barber. Every time I go, he presses his junk into my arm/elbow while cutting my hair. I am not talking about the incidental contact that occurs while sitting in that position, I am talking about him standing in the same spot for upwards of 3 minutes at a time while I can feel his cocknballs pressed up against my poor arm. I have tried moving my arms inward, but all that seems to do is invite him in closer. You may be saying to yourself, "Where's the dilemma?" ...the problem is that he does a great job, is ungodly cheap ($9 bucks!) and in the three years I have been going to him, I have never had to wait.

What do I do? It is extremely convenient for me to stick with him, and he knows exactly how I want my haircut. Do I just continue to suffer through the 15 minutes arm rape?

No haircut, in my opinion, is worth 15 minutes of arm rape. Surely, it's worth just going to Supercuts or having a friend buzz your head with the old #4 to avoid being, you know, sexually assaulted.

It's amazing how lazy and loyal men can simultaneously be. Here we have Mike happily enduring a hairy cock rubbing against his arm for minutes at a time, all because finding another barber (which isn't that hard) requires too much effort. And that's just a barber! Think of the guys you know who will stick with something for far too long because changing requires that extra little bit of motivation they consistently lack. This is how your friend ends up marrying that one girl you can't stand. Sure, he can't stand her either. But does he want to go through the process of breaking up with her, then face trying to find a new woman willing to sleep with him? FUCK AND NO, he doesn't. He'll marry that girl, and get stuck in a job he'll never have the sack to quit, and then he'll die fifty years later.

Men, DO NOT LET THIS BE YOU. Don't settle for the bad girlfriend, or the arm-raping barber. Demand more from yourself. GET OUT THERE AND LIVE, DAMMIT!

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Anyway, Mike followed up with this update:

There have been some developments. I have had my haircut twice by this guy since (you CANNOT beat $9), and on the day of my first time back I cooked up an experiment. I decided that when he moves in for the kill, I am going to elbow him in the junk. Going to this barber is ungodly cheap and convenient, so if I can curb him of his tendencies my hair cutting experiences can remain simple and easy. And if it goes wrong, what's the worst that would happen?

He could rape your ass with scissors?

So when I went in for a cut in early May, I put my plan into motion. I sat down and readied my elbow for action. About 5 minutes in he makes his move, and I counter. I flexed my arm so that my elbow was as pointed as possible and then I stuck it out like a battering ram aimed at his crotch (but making sure it was not obvious what I was doing). DIRECT HIT!!! He let out a barely audible groan/grunt and backed off.

He made no attempt to arm rape me again during that visit, and didn't make a single move during my latest haircut.

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So let's lay out Mike's story again. He goes for a haircut. His barber rapes his arm, which is almost as bad as the dreaded Jenna Elfman hand rape, but not quite. He tolerates this assault because he likes a bargain, then decides to elbow the barber in the nuts to prevent further rape. It's all well and good that it worked for him, I guess. But that doesn't eliminate the fact that HE RAPED YOUR ARM. How can you sit next to this monster? For nine dollars? All I'd think every time I visited would be RAPIST RAPIST RAPITY RAPIST!

I had a dentist once who wouldn't stop farting while he was putting a filling in my tooth. He was very fat, and very sweaty. And the first time he cut one while drilling my tooth, I thought to myself, "Uh… did he just fart?" I'd never had a dentist or doctor do that before. Then he did it AGAIN. Real loud. And I was like, "Holy shit. That WAS a fart. He's farting during my filling! He's cutting farts freely!" And he did. He kept farting and farting, the whole way through.

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No one likes a good fart more than me. I assure you. I ADORE farts. But even I have limits to what I will tolerate, and I expect more professionalism out of my dentist. So I found a new one, dammit. Granted, I found a new one only because the farter didn't take my new insurance. But still, DON'T SETTLE, GENTLEMEN.

Nate:

I feel like anytime I'm on my way to a delicious fatty dinner, I always encounter people running. This makes me feel like a fat loser who should be working out and I literally have the urge to run them over. Do I ever turn the car around and NOT consume the 1400 calorie cheese fries? Never.

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Yeah, those people are annoying, along with bikers. Not only do bikers clog up our roadways like a bunch of fuckheads, they also clearly delight in making you, the motorist, feel like shit because you were too lazy to hop on the bike and pedal 14 miles to work and back. I hate fitness overachievers like this. Oh, look at you! You logged 100 miles on the bike last week! Aren't you just so fucking SPECIAL? You cock. I especially dislike triathletes, who make it a point of pushing themselves in three different boring endurance sports, again just to make you feel like an asshole. Ever been out eating or drinking with a triathlete? And they'll be like, "Gotta watch what I eat. I'm training for the Ironman" or some shit like that? That's annoying. Triathletes deserve to be eaten by sharks.

Anon:

Do you ever exert yourself to be lazy? Sometimes when forced to empty the dishwasher, there will be an annoying pan or strainer that goes in the back of a bottom cupboard. Instead of putting it away, I will smear food on it (in case the wife questions it) and leave it in the dishwasher instead of bending over to put it away.

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It's a genius move, but then doesn't she know you did it anyway? Unfortunately, I am married to a woman who has a photographic memory when it comes to doing an inventory of things that require cleaning. She'd want to know just HOW that strainer got dirty again. No chance I could get away with such an admittedly brilliant gambit. And I hate the idea of having to wash an extra dish. That's the fucking worst. I'll be thiiisss close to being done washing the dishes, ready to go retire to my chair and do NOTHING for the rest of the night, when suddenly it's, "Oh hey, can you wash the teapot and all this food processor equipment?" GAH! NO! NO I CANNOT! I WAS NOT MENTALLY PREPARED FOR SUCH WICKEDNESS!

Mike:

I just had one of my all-time favorite things happen to me at lunch. I was getting a burrito and the chick making it for me just went way overboard on toppings, using much more than they usually do. Double rice, chicken, pretty much everything. The burrito was HUGE. She could barely wrap it up at the end.

To me, this is like finding money. Except it's extra food. This happens so randomly, it makes me wonder if they intentionally do this at some places just to fuck with you. Then there's the added bonus that she was pretty hot, so maybe she thought I was good looking (not likely, but still). Made my day.

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I'm surprised that happened, because most places now are such fascists when it comes to doling out portions. For example, let's say you go to Cosi for lunch one day. Yeah, yeah. Cosi is gay. Whatever. The point is, you order a buffalo chicken sandwich, and the lady making it is ordered, by corporate, to give you one level scoop of chicken in your sandwich, and no more. No room for variation or creativity. It's like forcing teachers to only teach what's on the standardized test. No chance at bonus meat, which is so depressing. I paid $8.50 for that goddamn sandwich. You can't give me one little extra cube of chicken in there? Misers.

By the way, anyone who's been to Cosi knows they always have a bowl out filled with scraps from cutting their bread. You can take them for free. And I do. Any time I go to Cosi, I empty the entire bowl of scraps. I don't care if that makes me a dick. That's free warm bread. It's delicious. I'll also walk into Cosi, use the pisser, grab all the bread scraps, and then leave without spending a fucking nickel. Makes me feel like the sneakiest hobo in America.

Brandon:

Why can't they make the handles on those baskets at the grocery store 2 inches taller so I can carry a pizza box? It never fits, and when I try to force it, the basket always ends up emptying all of its contents onto the aisle. Plus, I always feel like an asshole walking around with a basket full of bread, beer, etc in one hand and carrying Baron Rojo in the other.

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Indeed. Nothing worse than carrying around an awkwardly balanced grocery basket. Weigh it down too much, and those handles can really start to bring the pain on your poor fingers.

This is the reason men don't have purses. It's not because it looks too feminine (though that's obviously part of it). It's that we all HATE carrying shit around. I personally can't stand carrying anything for more than three seconds. Bags, umbrellas, cameras, a jacket I took off because the store got too hot… all of that. I fucking cannot stand having to carry shit. Ever go to a mall, and your lady buys something, and you have to carry it around for the next two hours? And the bag has those fucking paper handles that get all sweaty and start cutting into your palm like fucking piano wire? That is HELL. I hate it. I don't care how light the bag is, I despise carrying it around. I don't know how women tolerate carrying a fucking purse with them everywhere they go. Not only do you have to carry the purse, but you also have to keep tabs on it, like if you're riding on a roller coaster with it and shit. That is awful.

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Carrying shit blows.

Ed:

I am sick and tired of people always claiming baby animals are cute. Some are terrifically ugly, and in fact, I have little interest in going to zoos because of the risk of exposing my eyes to such damned unholy creations. Case in point.... baby pandas.

If I saw those things crawling towards me, the last thing they would ever see is a size 13 shoe.... if they had eyes yet!

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Oh, that IS horrible. It's like something out of Tremors.

Jason:

I just picked up an order a pizza joint it came to $20.01. I only had twentys on me and said out loud, "Shit, no change". I waited a few seconds but the kid just looked at me. Then I said, "I'll run out to my car for the penny," waited a few more seconds but there was just more staring. I will be totally in the right when I firebomb this place later tonight for making me run out to my car for a fucking penny, right?

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Oh, yes. Firebomb away. That's a situation where you, the customer, would absolutely forgive the penny if you were in his position. But the little mouth breather is too fucking stupid to take the hint.

I'm constantly in situations where I'll have some singles and change in my pocket, but they always come up juuust short of whatever item I'm trying to purchase. Now, any good clerk sees this potentially catastrophic situation and automatically says, "Don't worry about it." That's good clerking. But that rarely happens anymore. Instead, I'll say out loud, "Shit! I guess I'll have to break the twenty," and they don't take the hint at all. FOOL! I'm about to clean you out of singles and change with this twenty. FORGIVE THE DEBT!

HALFTIME!

Shayan:

Am I the only one who goes to places like Saladworks or the salad place at Montgomery Mall and asks for a salad then asks them to toss it real good? If I'm feeling extra dangerous I even reiterate that I want them to "get deep inside."

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That's good work there, Lou.

I rarely go to Saladworks or place like that, because I know damn well the salad I really WANT will far exceed the imaginary budget I've laid down for lunch (always under $10). They charge you by the weights for those salads. I would always like one that weighs 50 pounds and costs a thousand bucks. But I know damn well that scale will end up fucking me sideways, so I always have to exercise restraint. Thus, I end up with a Cobb salad that does not contain the 5 million bacon bits I would really like it to have.

If you've ever tried to eat lunch at a Whole Foods buffet for less than $10, you know of what I speak. I walk into a hot and cold buffet like that and want to fill a goddamn dumptruck with all that food. But you know what $10 gets you at Whole Foods? A noodle. One noodle. That's about it. Whole Foods is a buffet cocktease, is what they are. I'd like fifty pieces of chicken tikka masala and a pile of noodle salad you can ski down. Plus six trays of sushi. And maybe a soup. That would make for a proper lunch. Stupid overpriced lunch places.

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Wes:

Why can't I just come to work when there is work to be done? Shouldn't I be able to sit on my couch playing video games until there is enough work to do to keep my occupied for 9 hours? What kind of arcane system is this where I have nothing to do, but am forced to sit at my desk day in and day out for weeks on end?

You fool! Don't you get it? If you only showed up at work when you had to do actual work, the whole ruse would be up! Oh sure, you and everyone you work with already KNOWS you do nothing. But there's no need to make that fact so glaringly evident. Trust me. You'd be fired within seconds if your continued employment was shown to be as grossly inefficient as you know damn well it is.

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If you've ever worked in an office job, you know full well there comes a time in your career when you decide to sack up and start leaving work when you see fit, without telling anyone. When you start your career, there's always that horrible moment at 5 or 6 when you want to leave but know you have to check in with your boss before you walk out the door. That never ceases to be a terrifying moment. Your boss has your fate in the palm of his or her hand every time.

YOU: Hey boss, it's five and I was thinking… you know… if you were all set with everything…

You never know what you're gonna get in reply to that timid, timid entreaty to leave. Work in an office long enough, and you eventually learn to stop asking and not give a shit about the consequences. This is a great thing, EXCEPT for one thing. Leaving without asking permission on a regular basis means you will, at some point, get the call.

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You know the call I'm talking about. You're in the bar at 7, already drunk as hell, and your phone starts going batshit. And you pray to God it's not your boss calling, and then you check the phone, and it's totally your boss. And you know damn well you're about to be fucked. There are few worse feelings in the world than that. Not only is your boss pissed, but there's every indication you will be forced to go back to the office and do tedious crap for the rest of the night. I hate the callback to work.

Steve:

On my drive home I pass a Chipotle Grill and it has quickly found its way into my regular rotation. I stop probably about once a week. Tonight when I was getting ready to pay for my burrito bowl, the manager looked up with a chuckle and said: "See you tomorrow". What I heard was: "fat ass."

My question is this, shouldn't the manager of every fast food place be sent to the same school that they send cashiers for porn shops? Rule #1: Don't make eye contact with the regulars or even acknowledge that you have seen them before or will ever see them again. Rule #2: Don't judge the customer base because while I may be buying your garbage, you make your living out of selling it. Back to Taco Bell it is.

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I think you're right to never go back. If only because of the chuckle. That chuckle was far too sinister for my liking. It would be one thing if you walked into the Chipotle and the dude pointed at you with a smile and said, "Carnitas burrito with corn salsa and pinto beans, right?" That would tell me, the customer, that the worker is a good listener and considers me a PREFERRED CUSTOMER. I like feeling like my burritomaker and I have a special bond no other Chipotle patron has. HE MIGHT EVEN GIVE ME EXTRA CHICKEN. It's like a good bartender. There was a bar I went to in New York when I lived there, and I always liked to go because the bouncer always recognized me and greeted me warmly. Totally made me feel special, even though I'm just another dipshit.

But a manager sniggering and saying, "See you tomorrow"? No. Creepy. Fuck him in the pants.

Ben:

Is there anything worse than working your way though a bag of corn chips and a thing of dip, and then coming to the bottom 1/3 of the bag, which is invariably made up of useless chip shards? Not only are these shards razor-sharp and will stab you in the mouth, but they make it impossible to continue the chip+dip meal.

You can try to grab about 10 shards and try to stack them together, hoping that the dip can somehow glue the whole thing together on the trip to your mouth, but this is an extremely risky maneuver that usually ends with the chips and dip on the floor/your shoes. You can also get a half-mouthful of chip shards and spoon in a half-mouthful of dip and mix it in your mouth, mouthwash style. This has the benefit of being kind of fun, but also has the severe downside of requiring a utensil, which goes against the very idea of eating chips and dip in the first place.

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Well, I'm a big fan of grabbing chip shards by the handful and stuffing my face with them, such as when finishing off a bag of Doritos. I will actually crumple some of the last chips up to get myself a better pour from the bag. But that is without dip complicating matters. Ben is right. When it comes to dipping, you want as broad a canvas to work with as humanly possible. This is why I always make sure to eat the chips as soon as the bowl is filled. This is also because I'm selfish and a fucking pig, but also because I know there are only so many useful dipping chips in there. Once those good big chips are gone, you're left to scrounge with the peasants. Like most of you, if eating corn chips alone, I will always try to eat the chips in descending order of size.

Logistically, it's not possible to make a bag of triple oversized Tostitos with lime. All of them would break in transit. Also, they cease being chips and become popadums. But I'd still like to envision a future where I can buy a tortilla chip that's as large as a postcard.

Frank:

I'm a huge Jeopardy! fan but there is nothing that annoys me more than the time the show devotes to having Alex interview the guests. I DON'T CARE ABOUT THAT GIANT FUCKING ROCK YOU SAW ONCE. Fuck you, and get back to the clues.

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Agreed. This is why things like DVRs are necessary. To cut through all the pointless "get to know you" bullshit on shows like this. They could absolutely fit a Triple Jeopardy round into that show. But they don't. Know why? LAZINESS.

Anyway, the "interview the contestants" segment of Jeopardy is one of many show segments out there I would do away with entirely. Not counting 89% of SportsCenter, here is a small list of those useless segments:

1. Virtually any interview on The Daily Show or Colbert. You get two segments of funny, then suddenly the show morphs into the fucking C-SPAN book club. Horrible. And it's even worse when Colbert has extra guests added to the front of the program. I love Colbert, which is precisely why I hate it when there are guests hanging around to be annoying when all I want is Colbert.

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2. The last part of Wheel of Fortune where Pat and Vanna stand there like a couple of fucking idiots. "Well, it was a great show today!" You know what? I don't need your little postmortem. Add more puzzles or go the fuck away.

3. Any part of "Anthony Bourdain: No Reservations" where they stick Tony on a fucking boat. They always make this poor guy go on a fucking boat, for reasons that escape me. Just get to the awesome street food and cut out the strained hijinks.

4. The SNL monologue if it is not performed by Zach Galifianakis. Whenever a host breaks out into song, you know you're in for a longass night. Oh, and any SNL segment featuring Seth Meyers. Actually, all of SNL.

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5. The weather tease on your local news. I fucking hate weathermen with every fiber of my being. I can get the seven-day forecast from the computer. You people are fucking superfluous. But no, you have to clutter up the first five minute of every newscast analyzing the day's weather like it was a fucking divisional playoff game, telling me about some stupid rainfall in a town 40 miles away where no one fucking lives, and telling me to sit tight for the expanded forecast later on. No. I won't stick around. I'll go look at it now. DIE. Get laid off and starve in a fucking dumpster.

Wade:

Is it wrong that every time I see someone in public wearing a neck brace, I automatically assume that they are faking the injury to screw someone out of money? I swear my initial emotional response is contempt for these people. Maybe it's all of the sitcoms I watched growing up, but I feel like pulling a Mike Brady and throwing something heavy down behind them to see if they can turn their head.

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They may not be faking the injury, by I certainly think there's a temptation to suspect they're just being melodramatic about it.

Jimjim:

You are locked in a steel cage with a fully grown male ape. The ape is knocked out due to tranqs. You must ass-fuck the ape, sans condom, and "finish" (without use of own hands) in order to be let out of the cage. The tranqs will wear off in 10 minutes at which point the ape will be awake and fully alert. You will be paid whether you make it out of the cage or not. What is your minimum asking price?

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I don't do it for any price, because there's no possible way I could get it up with that kind of pressure on my shoulders. I'm not Peter North. I have a very fragile psyche. One knock, and my erection will topple over like those buildings in the Inception trailer. So the idea that I can successfully rape an ape in under 10 minutes with presumably many people watching and a million bucks on the line? I already know it's not possible. I'd never finish, and then the ape would wake up and tear my dick off. No dice.

Time to wrap things up with a GREAT MOMENT IN POOP HISTORY. From reader David comes a story he calls THE POONAMI:

First day in Bhubaneswar, India, I check into my hotel room. I realize I really need to go, so I head to the bathroom. No toilet paper. I call the front desk and they say they will be right up. Ten minutes pass, and I REALLY need to go. I decide to try it without the TP. I finish up, everything solid and normal. Door knock. It is the guy wit the TP.

I figure I will get up quickly, pull my pants up, and get the paper...clean up, job finished. Unfortunately, I didn't get a clean break, so to speak, and I could feel some crap sandwiched in between my buttocks. I got back to the bathroom with the paper, knowing I had a hell of a job ahead of me. I wiped like crazy but I realized it was still too foul down there. I decided to shower and clean myself up.

Now, in India, showers often have no stalls. The whole bathroom is the shower stall, and there is a drain in the floor. Kind of weird but I was getting used to it. I start the shower and start washing my ass. Only then do I realize that the drain was waaaaaay over by the sink, underneath the sink really. So I'm standing barefoot in this lake of shit water as it starts spreading ALL over the bathroom floor. I had to pick up my towel and clothes before they got hit with the shit tsunami. After I wash up, I spend another 5 minutes guiding this disgusting water to the drain (which of course was draining incredibly slowly). Oh and it smelled really good too. Closest I have come to stomping through a sewer.

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I'm never going to India.