Let's get right to your letters. We're in for a cocksuckin' good time today, cocksuckers.
Whoa, just had about the worst experience I've ever had while mowing the lawn... I was cruising along, almost done, when a baby rabbit jumped from a den in the grass right in to the blades of the mower. Bad, right?
Well, it gets worse.
It wasn't dead. So my mind sprinted through the options: a) do nothing and hope that it crawls off and dies quickly; b) go grab a shovel and smash it, or c) run it over again...
I chose c. It seemed like the quickest and probably most humane (also the bloodiest) way to put the poor thing out of its misery. Anyway, I didn't feel great about it. Making it worse was the fact that I was a little bit stoned when it happened.
This is awful. Tragic. Perhaps the saddest thing I've ever read. Did you not consider the fourth option: butchering the rabbit and braising it in mustard and white wine? Think of the free feast you could have had ALL TO YOURSELF. And you blewwwwwww it! You blew it!
(Never gets old, that clip.)
I can't think of anything that would kill a buzz more than shredding a rabbit to pieces with a Toro mower. You shouldn't have run it over AGAIN. Then it just gets more mangled while alive and you could get rabbit blood on your shoes. Think about trying to Shout out that stain. Not easy. You should have grabbed a shovel and given it a swift braining. That was the humane thing to do. Also, how often are you gonna get to kill something with a shovel in life? Opportunity squeals, buddy.
/drops macho façade
/remembers reading Velveteen rabbit as a child
/cries for rabbit's family
Does Mrs. Drew ever get her hair done without you noticing it? My girlfriend has probably gotten a haircut 30 times since I've been with her and the only time I've noticed is when she did some stupid thing with her bangs. She apparently cut off six inches and then got all self-conscious about how it looked last week but I had no idea. I paid for this.
Yeah, that's a stock theme of marriage. Every marriage has this conversation:
WIFE: Like my hair?
WIFE: My hair. I had it done.
YOU: Oh. Cool. Looks gorgeous.
I have that conversation with my wife roughly once a month or so. She often psychs herself up about radically changing her hair. Changing the color. Going with a bob. Something NOTICEABLE. But she never has the stones to go through with it. One day, she was going to the hairdresser and was all pumped to drastically change her hairstyle.
ME: You'll never do it.
HER: I will!
ME: You'll pussy out.
HER: No. Not this time. I'm going all in.
She came back with the EXACT same haircut she always gets.
I learned long ago to live with the expense of these regular trips to the salon. And yet, in the back of my mind, I still rage at the insane amount of money women throw down just get highlights and two inches taken off the back. It's $200 down the fucking toilet every time they do it, and they do it A LOT. That's just how it is, but it's INSANE. Surely I could work similar magic on my wife with some Reynolds Wrap and a bottle of Loving Care.
I was getting a salad together for dinner for my wife and I cut out a quarter of a red pepper to use. What was waiting for me under the surface? Little Mr. Red pepper, complete with the ball sack. Take home message: nature never ceases to amaze and astound. If the Virgin Mary in a grilled cheese sandwich goes for $28K on ebay, then my cock pepper should be worth something.
Agreed. Surely it could fetch up to half a penny on the open market.
I really wish red peppers were cheaper. They have that hierarchy at the supermarket where green peppers are dirt cheap, red peppers are more expensive, and then yellow and orange peppers are locked behind the counter in a lucite case, and you must present a bank statement to purchase them. I know damn well that growing a yellow pepper is no more costly then growing a green. They KNOW the green pepper tastes shitty, so they'll always try and pawn that off on you for a lower price. Fuckers.
By the way, we have a salad with dinner a lot. There is nothing less gratifying than making a salad. I hate it. You have to chop a million vegetables. You have to wash the lettuce (or buy bagged lettuce at a big markup). You have to make the dressing or open the bottle of it. All for the least interesting part of the meal. Do I add unreasonable amount of cheese, croutons, and nuts to any salad? FUCK YEAH I DO.
I'm often up late at night on the computer, or reading a book, or doing whatever else I can possibly do after my daughter is in bed. This is my time. I enjoy my time tremendously. And you know what makes this time better? Local, late night commercials. Is there anything better than the horrible acting and production value that comes with these commercials?
Of course not. And the smaller the town, the worse they are. Here in DC, of course, the Eastern Motors spots are legendary. But by the standards of homemade locals commercials, they look like a James Cameron movie. They have celebrities! And editing! Real local commercials have neither of those things. Like the Bob's Furniture ads:
Look at how fucking horrible that furniture is. That's the kind of couch you see in a house and you KNOW immediately that it has fifty jizz stains on it. I'm not sitting on that! It's a jizz repository for shit's sake, Bob! You probably christened it yourself!
I went to college in Maine. Maine is a horrible place filled with mutated humanoids. And the local commercials there were like something out of a Lynch film. There was this RV place that had a jingle. This was the jingle:
They got the sharpest pencil in town
And they sit around makin' deals
Whittlin' that old pencil down
They know if you come once that you'll come back
So instead of buyin' one, you're buyin' two and that's a fact!
They got the sharpest pencil in town…
I have no fucking clue what that means. Yet here I am a dozen years later and I know that song by heart. That ad was evil. Maine is fucked.
I have always been of the opinion that any REAL man has to drive a stick shift. Cars with automatic transmissions are for old women and pussies. Every time I'm skillfully up shifting through the gearbox or sexily downshifting around turns I imagine I'm a Formula One driver hauling ass through the streets of Monte Carlo thinking of which Euro supermodel I'm gonna hook up with at the post race soirée whilst wearing my tuxedo and drinking my martini.
I don't know how to drive stick shift. My Dad tried to teach me once and got so frustrated with me fucking it up that he abandoned the effort forever. I feel like a complete assclown not knowing how to drive stick shift. Stick shift cars are cheaper and save you money on gas. And, like Richard says, they make you feel like you're in the middle of Ronin and trying to run down a bunch of Eastern European terrorists. But I can't seem to operate a stick shift car without it lurching forward two feet and then stopping violently. Yet I see perfectly idiotic people using stick shift every day. Which means I'm the king of stupid pussies. CROWN MY ASS.
Is there a better job than strip club DJ? You don't actually have to DJ, you can play nasty songs like "Pop That Pussy," you get to look at boobs all day, drink for free and surely get some stray tang by being a nice guy and consoling the dancers during their inevitable failures in life. PLUS, you get to use "strip club DJ voice" unironically. What's better?
Eh, I dunno. Think about it. Would you REALLY want to be a strip club DJ? You'd have to hang out in the club all day, and strip clubs can become depressing in a fucking INSTANT. Plus you'd have to deal with shithead frat boys demanding you play "Bawidaba" every five minutes, along with coke dealers and the inevitable old drunken louts hanging around the club all day. You know those guys. They're like homeless people, only they have a home. Plus, I've never seen a strip club DJ who wasn't a complete scumbag. You never see a strip club DJ and think to yourself, "Hey, he seems cool." No, man. You always think to yourself HOLY SHIT IT'S LIKE CRISS ANGEL MATED WITH SPENCER PRATT KILL IT WITH FIRE.
But I do like the idea of being the guest DJ at a titty bar. Like EJ says, using the "strip club DJ" voice has to be an absolute blast. "And noooowwww, coming to the stage in her international debut… everyone give a warm welcome to CINNAMON JONES! MAKE IT RAIN, BOYS! WOOOOO!!!"
That would be fun to do for exactly 90 minutes. Then you get the fuck out of there and go back to being a normal, disease-free human being.
How fucking amazing would it be if you were born 500 years ago and you could actually be an Explorer as a full time job like Christopher Columbus or Ponce de Leon?
Allow me to answer that question by recommending to you this actual book. I'm a terrible reader, but I swear to you this book rules. It details how Magellan circumvented the globe. (UPDATE: Or circumnavigated the globe. Or circumcised it. I am stupid.) Only he didn't actually do it. He was killed on a Pacific Island, and then his crew sailed home. Only HE got all the credit. Bastard.
Anyway, there are pluses and minuses to wanting to be a real explorer. Magellan was essentially like a movie producer and director back in the day. He had to get royal permission to go exploring, which meant he had to pitch his idea to the King. "Well King, we're gonna go sailing and hopefully find some nutmeg and shit." Then he had to hire a crew and have the boats built and stocked. That takes a shitload of event planning, and no guy likes to do any of that. It's horrible. Also, the King can have you killed if you fuck up the expedition and come back with nothing. Because you embarrassed him. Royalty is neat like that.
Then you have to go out on the open seas in a rickety sailboat (NO motor), and subject yourself to violent storms and mutinies and sharks and all that. Plus, you only get to eat hardtack, and you don't know yet that oranges can save you from scurvy, which turns your bones into sponges. Not cool. At all.
However, Magellan also got to do some cool shit. He got to torture crew members who fell out of line by giving them the STRAPPADO, in which your hands are tied behind your back and then slowly raised with a rope until both your shoulders pop out. SWEETNESS. I've always wanted to do that to another person, specifically Brad Childress. I'd strappado his ass all day long.
Also, the book details the men landing in Brazil, encountering the Brazilian women, and then fucking the shit out of them. Apparently, Brazilian women were even freakier back then. Imagine getting off a boat after five months and having some smoking hot Brazilian chick ready to service you. That beats conjugal visit sex. It really does.
Anyway, one passage really got me. Magellan and his men made it to South America and were continuing to sail West, back to Europe. They finally found the Strait of Magellan (not called that at the time, obviously), and figured they'd be home in relatively short order, because THEY DIDN'T KNOW THE PACIFIC OCEAN FUCKING EXISTED. Imagine that. Imagine thinking you're close to home, only to find out there's a body of water covering a third of the Earth's surface left to go. And you don't even know how big it is! Holy shit! I'd fucking die.
So yeah, being an explorer wouldn't be all that great. It ain't like this game, which I played 9,000 times as a kid. It involves planning and death. Still might be worth it for the savage tang, though.
That Jordan foul line shot against the Cavs, and that celebratory jump in the air fist pump… is it wrong to practice that move in order to have it in the playbook for when something awesome happens in my life? It'd have to be like first child or accepted marriage proposal. Cause I have to imagine that would be kick-ass, busting that move out at some point.
I agree, but the reason that particular celebratory jump is so memorable is because Jordan was able to jump so fucking HIGH. Here's the clip (sorry in advance to Cavs fans):
Goddamn, he jumps high. He's practically delivering an invisible roundhouse kick to poor Craig Ehlo's head. NICE. You and I can't jump that high, but it would be cool if we could in a moment of pure elation. I'd love to be able to do that celebration, or to able to execute a perfect flying ass bump with a teammate. I'd kill myself if I tried any of those things, but shit yeah I picture myself doing it all the time.
One other note on that Jordan clip: That clip was taken twenty-one years ago. Seems like a long time ago, and the old graphics really drive the point home. In fact, virtually any outdated sports graphic will make any clip feel like it's a million years old. Even if it's from a game they play three years ago. If I see some outdated FOX graphic from the 2003 NFC title game, it may as well have been played in 1934. It feels much older than it actually is.
Have you ever sat up with stomach pubes caught in your belt or pants? You can feel each individual hair being ripped out of its follicle and for a second you turn into Lou Ferrigno.
Yup. Not fun. I always have that one stray wiry pube that gets caught in the zipper. Without good pubic grooming habits, you're gonna get that one rogue pube that's shaped like an undone coathanger and always looking for TROUBLE. Stupid stray pubes.
I don't know what it is about pissing from high places, but I absolutely love it. To me there is no better feeling that pissing off of a bridge or the roof of a building. There is something so satisfying about watching your own pee travel that far. If a new law mandated that every toilet had to have at least a six-foot drop to the bowl, I may become the happiest man on earth. Not to mention the joy of being able to take an atomic bomb shit every time you need to duce…Am I the only one who finds this satisfying?
Of course not. If you're out at an apartment party and you're on the balcony, you're gonna piss off that balcony. Laziness is just the superficial reason. The real reason you do it because you get your rocks off seeing that long trail of gold connect your dick to the asphalt six stories below. That never ceases to be euphoric.
We've discussed urinal design here at the Funbag before. I think we all agree that urinals that reach the floor are excellent because they provide maximum drop value. But the splashback on the feet is unacceptable. This is why all bars need a urinal that has a bottom six feet BELOW where your feet are. Think of it. A urinal trench to use as you please, with no splashback. It would be like pissing into the shitpile of a port-a-potty, only you aren't trapped in the port-a-potty. You could also cross streams with friends at that depth. It wouldn't be hard. A simple 2-degree turn to the left or right would be enough of a redirect. It wouldn't require the full turn of a standard urinal trough, which would be weird and uncomfortable.
Anyway, like Ryan said, pissing from high places is great. If I were rich, I'd buy a helicopter, have the pilot raise it up 5,000 feet, and then go piss onto a major city street. I'd do it every day. Being rich and pissing would be great.
Have you ever done the math on diapers? I have two kids and have been continuously changing diapers for six years. Figuring about $4 a day with 4 diapers plus wipes works out to near $9k. We can't potty train the youngest because he has special needs. I don't know what bigger diapers cost, but it's only gonna get worse.
Well, it depends on where you buy them. Every dad in the world has done the diaper math, the formula math, and the diaper-and-formula math (DFP in sabremetric terms). You're fucked no matter what kind of diaper you buy, but you obviously save more if you buy the diapers wholesale at Costco.
I would go to Costco, but the one closest to me isn't very close at all. It also has bizarre hours. Like, it opens at 11AM and closes at 1PM. I don't get it at all. It tortures me every day that I don't have a Costco very close by where I can buy two pound bags of Kirkland cashews. Think of the money I could be saving on jerky. Instead I'm stuck with Target. Speaking of which…
Am I the only one who has noticed that the credit card machines at Target are the fucking tits? As soon as you sign your name with that little stick thing and hit "OK" no more than 1 second later your receipt is coming out and you're out the door. I go to the gas station next door and it feels like a fucking eternity. Why is it that Target is the only fucker that gets it? Do they have Target only credit card machines? It's like I want them to scan my shit one at a time just so I can watch that fucking thing move so fast. This is just one more fucking reason to add to the pile of why I hate Walmart.
It's true. In general, Target is lovely. It's clean. It has wide aisles. No one there is a dick. It's like the diametric opposite of a Radio Shack. It also has that little cart escalator next to the real escalator. You put your cart through the door and it rides up alongside you. I'd just go up and down with my cart 100 times it were socially acceptable. It never stops being cool to watch the cart go up an escalator on its own.
My wife goes to Target every other week and manages to throw down gobs of cash because everything on the shelf there is so appealing. They have ready-to-bake monster cookies. Like I'm not throwing 70 of those in the cart. And look at how ergonomically sound this plastic laundry basket is! For just 12 bucks? WE'D BE FOOLS NOT TO BUY IT.
Mmm... Cock cola.
Is there anything in the world more annoying then when 1 door of a double door entrance is locked? I submit that there is not. Everyday I have to deal with about 6 different sets of these situations. The worst part is that I never even remember about it until I reach for a door, pull it back (with force!) and nothing happens. It just stops all the momentum of my day. Why is this happening?! Why can't we just leave both doors unlocked??? What do they think we will do? Do they think that criminals will always chose only the locked side and then decide the building is closed despite all the people they can see inside and move on to the next building?
You're overthinking it. Think of a set of French doors in a fancy house. One door swings open when you unlock the latch. The other stays put, bolted to the frame by that inner latch most people are too lazy to undo. And by most people, I mean "me" and "office building custodial staff". Sometimes, that inner bolt can get all sticky. The janitor would have to exert himself to undo it, then he'd have to re-latch it at the end of the day when he's closing the joint up. As someone who is often too lazy to reach for any object outside of a one-foot radius of my body, I understand the reasoning entirely.
I'm 99.9% sure that I haven't even made it halfway through a tube of chapstick before losing it, leaving it in my car to melt/evaporate, put it through the washer, etc. So my question is, has anyone ever used an entire tube of chapstick? Does the chapstick industry thrive on the fact that idiots like myself can never use an entire tube?
Probably. I put my Chap Stick through the washer at least seven times every winter. My wife gets annoyed at this. I tell her it helps keep our clothes nice and shiny.
You don't want t get to the end of a Chap Stick anyway. The end of a Chap Stick is an ugly sight. I like to dial the stick all the way down the tube to see how far it goes. LOOK AT THAT, MAN. THAT IS DEEP. Then this little nub of wax forms on the screw inside the tube, and it just builds up like ash on a burning cigarette. What do you do with that little snub? I try rubbing it on my lips but it feels like I'm smearing blister pus on my mouth. Then the stick itself gets all bumpy and crusted with bagel crumbs and shit (at least, mine does because I'm a horrifying person).
Then you get to the end of the stick and you dial it too far and the little hub containing the wax falls to the carpet and gets carpet hair and shit all over it but you're so fucking close to finishing the whole thing you can't stop now so you put it back it and dial it back down only it's all fuzzy and horrible now and you go to dial it again and it falls out AGAIN and now you're digging out the wax around the asshole of the little stick holder and that's even nastier because it's kinda like smegma at this point…
Anyway, it's unpleasant.
You know the nights where you start out totally above the covers, eventually get one leg under and one leg above, and then somehow end up totally under the covers and then wake-up drenched in sweat in the middle of the night like John McCain in a Hanoi Hilton Hot box?
All too well, kiddo. All too well. I have an entire circuit I run while falling asleep. I start off under the covers, with the comforter pinned under my legs for optimum coziness. Then one leg pokes out. Then both come out and pin the comforter down. Then both legs go back under because I'm now cold. Then an arm comes out. And then the wife stabs me to death with an ice pick. I cannot blame her for this. Optimum body temperature is elusive to me.
Time to close out our day with a GREAT MOMENT IN POOP HISTORY:
I am a habitual toilet-clogger. This has been a problem all my life. I've clogged toilets at work, at friend's houses, and at every place I've ever lived. I clog a toilet AT LEAST once a month. Usually some simple plunging does the trick, but every once in a while it's serious. Ever try making a homemade plumber's snake? You unravel a wire coat hanger and jam it down the toilet. It never works. I overflowed the toilet at my apartment in college once. It seeped down into the unit below mine and the maintenance crew had to come fix it. They told the people below that it was a burst pipe. Good move.
The only shitter I can't clog is the kind that flushes with frightening force, like an airplane toilet. They have them in public restrooms, and my parents put one into our bathroom when I was 12 (see: my whole life).
I've always wavered on what the proper etiquette is when I clog a foreign toilet badly. Obviously, at my place I deal with it, but at a restaurant/work/a stranger's party...no fucking way. At my friends' I have to deal with it as well, because I've developed a reputation; they always assume it was me if they discover a clog after I'm gone. I had to go buy Draino at Walmart after I clogged one pal's crapper. I also had to walk around Manhattan looking for a hardware store once so that I could buy a plunger for my friend's apartment on the upper East side. What kind of idiot doesn't own a plunger? Actually, that leads into the best clog story I have.
One time, I clogged the only toilet at an apartment I was sharing with a small group of people whom I was working with for the summer. Our employer had set it up, and the living conditions sucked. Of course, there was no plunger. It was late at night, so I snuck out of the bathroom and forgot all about it. Most of us went to work the next morning, but one very, very dumb (and very, very annoying) girl had the day off. When we returned, the landlord was there plunging the toilet and the whole bathroom was flooded. Our dumb roommate was distraught. She had woken up to go pee and discovered it clogged. When she later had to shit, you'd think she would know better. She didn't. She crapped in the toilet that she KNEW was clogged. Then she kept flushing it. It overflowed. So she had picked up her own poop, put it in a plastic bag, walked HALF A MILE to the PUBLIC LIBRARY, went INSIDE, and deposited it in the trash can. Not the bathroom, the TRASH CAN. My other roommates hated this girl, so they proceeded to tell this story to everyone we worked with, and she never lived it down. I neglected to fill in the part about the clog being my fault. Does this make me a bad person? Probably; my mega-dump ruined that poor girl's summer.
Poor girl indeed.