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

Your letters:

Matt:

Which Harrison Ford character do you think slept with more women, Han Solo or Indiana Jones? This is tough because you know Han Solo wasn't above banging a few stray aliens (I don't think any of us are) but Chewbacca as a wingman could not have been helpful. Indiana Jones was a professor (instant horny co-ed bang) and he also fell out of an airplane mid-flight and only used a survival raft to assure not only his, but two other people's safety, which should have been an instant bumping of uglies.

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I think it's Indiana Jones, if only because Solo had to spend lots of time up in the Falcon alone with Chewbacca, and therefore didn't always have ready access to hot space poon. Although, the more I think about it, the Falcon could travel very fast, and it's likely that a large portion of Solo's debt to Jabba the Hutt included fees paid for alien hooker services. Han and Chewie could have rented a couple of space escorts for a standard freight mission, and spent the bulk of their travel time in the back of the Falcon, hollowing out some blue chicks. If you were single had the means to have sex with an attractive female, would you? I would. I'd be like James Caan in Alien Nation. I'd see what that big alien head can do.

There's also the issue of longevity. One thing that's never addressed in the Star Wars movies (rightfully so) is this basic question: Are all the human characters in the movies actually human? Is Han Solo a human being, with a normal human lifespan? Or is he a member of an alien race that merely LOOKS human, but in fact has a wildly different physiology? For all I know, Han could live an extra 200 years, and therefore easily surpass Indiana's pussy tally. I haven't even gotten into the issue of the Force, which could possibly extend your life beyond its normal span (though Solo didn't have the Force).

I remember watching Return of the Jedi as a kid and wondering if Yoda was a human being who, through the power of the Force, was able to live 900 years, and thus shriveled down over time into a little green creature. Wikipedia says, "Yoda's race and home world have never been stated in any media, canonical or otherwise, and he is merely stated to be of a ‚Äėspecies unknown' by the Star Wars Databank." So he could be a mutated human being. Maybe. Probably not. I wonder if Yoda had sex. That would be great if he rented a six-foot tall hooker and then bounced all over her for five minutes. I bet there's fan fiction of that somewhere. "On your face, I have skeeted."

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I disagree that having Chewbacca as a wingman would be some sort of female deterrent. Quite the contrary. You ever see girls look at a dude walking around with a dog? They ovulate on the spot. Chewie's like a giant dog. No way you aren't pulling tail if you're strolling into the bar with your best Wookie buddy at your side. I'd have given anything to own a Wookie when I was single. We would have gotten absolutely DESTROYED. That's the Star Wars sequel they should have made: a hard R bloodfest featuring Han and Chewie hanging out at space bars and raising fucking hell. Again, I'm sure there's a Star Wars book that depicts this, and I'm sure it's fucking terrible.

So, on second thought, I think I'll side with Han Solo on this one. Although Lando clearly got more pussy than both men combined. Lando was a player.

Tom:

So I just spent the morning learning about how many ancient cultures did not assign any sort of negative connotations to homosexuality; and as a result homosexuality was much more widespread, especially amongst males. In fact, the Samurai often leaned towards homosexuality, and the Spartans and Athenians were a predominately homosexual society.

So my question to you is this: if we lived in a society in which getting freaky with dudes from time to time was not frowned upon or seen as effeminate by some, and half of our army as well as a fairly large percentage of NBA players were openly gay or at least bisexual, would you have gotten down with a guy at some point in your life? If yes, with who?

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The answer is almost certainly yes. I'm not gonna bother trying to craft some sort of argument that I would somehow be the one to buck a general societal trend. DURR I'M SUPER MACHO I'D NEVER BANG A DUDE DURRRR. Whatever. I'm a fucking sheep. I do what I'm told. And if society told me to go blow a guy, I'm probably malleable enough to go along with it. And the guy I'd blow? David Geffen. Rich sugar daddies, for the win.

We live in a society right now that is growing increasing tolerant of homosexuality, which is a good thing, of course. We're not all the way there, but certainly gay people are more widely accepted than they were back in the 1980's, when I grew up. The way things are going, I assume homosexuality will be even more widely accepted into the next century. When that happens, you're probably gonna see more kids growing up in America who have no qualms about hooking up with guys and girls alike, before settling on the gender that really captures their interest. If I were growing up two hundred years from now, I'd totally be doling out handies for pot money. Fun!

There's a much darker shade to Tom's question. Remember, the ancient Greeks were also big on man-boy loving. Or so I would assume. I'm too lazy to look it up, but it's a FACT: Socrates totally tagged little boys. And so, there arises a much more disturbing question: If you were raised in a society where something horrible like man-boy relations were standard, would you also partake? And what about Nazism? Yeah, some German people during World War II didn't get caught up in Nazi fervor, but a whole fucking lot of them did. What if YOU were growing up in Germany then, as an impressionable youth? Would you end up being a fuckface Nazi stormtrooper, with the trenchcoats and the murdering and everything? Would you know what you were caught up was wrong if everyone around you told you it was right?

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I'm very, very glad I'll never have to find out the answer to that. But yeah, I'd probably have nailed a dude in Sparta. They were so tan!

Greg:

I know you are aware of this inexplicable problem with one of our nation's finest delicacies - Kung Pao Chicken. In all versions I have had, most commonly from Panda Express, the dish contains a large, black pepper type thing that is not edible. I found it out the hard way the first time and since then I go through and pull out these monstrosities. I'm guessing people have been doing this for a while, but I'm putting my foot down. Why the fuck are they in there? Why can't the restaurant remove them? Let me be clear - this is NOT a garnish.

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Are you talking about those little tiny red peppers of death? I've accidentally bitten down on one of those a few times, and holy shit, that is AGONY. Like someone skinned your tongue. There's a very good reason those peppers are in your Chinese food, and that is that the Chinese fellow cooking your food grew up in Szechuan province and has been fed peppers that spicy since birth. Thus, his mouth and digestive system are well prepared for the violent onslaught those peppers bring. He'd have to swallow molten lead to get a rise out of his tummy.

But you, with your coddled American children's diet of Lactaid and KraftMac, have no chance against this kind of shit. I went to an Indian joint once and ordered the Chicken Vindaloo (Rick Reilly's favorite simile!). My wife doesn't tolerate spicy food all that well, so I asked the waiter if it was spicy. He said it wasn't. The food came, and it was hotter than SHIT. I nearly swallowed my water glass whole. I stuffed naan directly inside my rectum to prevent instant IBS. But the waiter didn't lie to us. The dish wasn't spicy TO HIM. Because he grew up on food that spicy. It tasted as plain as rice to him. But to me? FIRE.

I enjoy spicy food. But really, what I like is showing people how awesome I am at tolerating spicy food. That's a whole macho thing. Oh please, make it EXTRA spicy. Throw in the Merciless Pepper of Quetzalacatenango! I'm a fucking MAN. I don't know why I do this. There's comes a point when I privately wish my food NOT scorch my intestinal lining. I'd like to just TASTE my food. But that point comes well after I've shoveled down enough vindaloo to scrape out my insides. I sat there, eating this vindaloo in front of my wife, and pretending it wasn't causing me serious internal distress. "Oh, it's not so bad!" Meanwhile, I'm wiping my forehead with the tablecloth every seven seconds. Eventually I caved and told the waiter I couldn't eat any more of it. No more posturing. I was a clear pussy compared to Indian waiter man. I was through trying to deny it.

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Burt:

I find it funny that every year, while BrittFarr contemplates his decision, he goes to Elk Grove high school and practices with the team. I would think that the starting quarterback for Elk Grove must hate it when he takes all his reps. I imagine this team has been woefully unprepared for years as Brett takes all the snaps in his Wranglers.

I also picture the entire Elk Grove team being forced to relocate to the gym while Brett and a roving gang of reporters commandeers the only practice field the school has.

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When I rode the bench for my dipshit prep school football team, there would be days when it would be raining really hard and I'd think to myself, "Jesus, I wish we'd just practice inside." Then lightning would come and they'd move us to the gym. I always figured it would be far better to practice in the gym. IT WAS NOT. Ever practice in full pads in a school gym? It's torture. It's hot, and stuffy, and the floor fucking hurts when you fall down, and kids from other sports are all around you moving freely about in comfortable shorts and t-shirts. Indoor football practice fucking blew.

It was just like being stuck in a college class on a nice spring day, begging your teacher to have class outside, then going outside and realize that being stuck in a class outside kind of sucks. There's nowhere comfortable to sit. The teacher still expects you to listen, even though you're already tuned out and staring at whatever stray hot women are walking about the campus. And you have to sit there with an open book, even though there's no good spot to hold open a book when you have no desk to lay it on. Class outside was always better in theory than in practice.

Anyway, Brett Favre is a cocksucker.

Rod:

What is the most powerful bite in nature? A great white shark chomping a seal, a crocodile pulling down a wildebeest, or you biting your own tongue?

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The last one. Shocked I haven't clipped my own tongue clean off yet. I bite my tongue, and I howl like a dog stuck in a rat trap. I could punch through concrete after biting my tongue. It just makes me so… fucking… MAD. Why, God? Why would you make it so easy to cause myself such unbearable pain?! And while eating? Eating is the best part of my day, and you had to go RUIN it.

HALFTIME!

Steven:

I happen to be currently dating a girl with a name that I really like. I only know 2 other girls with this name and at some point I decided that I like it enough to name my daughter that, if I ever have one (in like 5+ years). This begs the question: Is it ok to name a kid after a girl you've banged? Is that just weird? Every time I look at my own daughter will I think, "she has the same name as a girl that could get off like a porn star from the "special" section of the site"?

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Is that name Kwinsie? Because that name is MINE AND YOU CAN'T HAVE IT.

Anyway, when we were naming our first kid, my wife said she liked a certain name for the kid. I reminded her I dated a girl with that same name. We immediately threw it out (but not before she had expressed annoyance that I had ruined a perfectly good potential name by sleeping with it). So if you aren't willing to let go of that name for your future daughter, I assure you your future wife will happily force you to. Unless you decide to keep that information from your wife, and decide to spend the rest of your marriage secretly knowing you've named your child after a former sexual conquest. I'm sure that won't mess with your head AT ALL. The fact that you're asking this question now means it's gonna fuck with you if you ever go through with it. Drop Kyteesha from your name list.

Besides, just because you have a name in mind for your future daughter doesn't mean your future wife will like it. In fact, it's a lock she'll hate it and dismiss it immediately. Trust me.

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Mr. Met's Morphine:

Let's say your car careens off your standard suspension bridge. Maybe your car got hit, maybe you swerved, maybe you're hammered, who knows. How much time do you have before your car hits the water below? What do you do with that time? Probably not enough to open the door and jump out. Do you try to roll down the windows? These are the things I think about.

Obviously, the length of the fall would be determined by how high the bridge is. What would I do with that time? Nothing. I know how I work, and I'm virtually certain I would spend that entire fall just thinking to myself HOLY FUCK, I AM FALLING OFF A BRIDGE. In extraordinary life moments, my thoughts become extremely literal. When I was getting married, my only thought was HOLY SHIT I AM GETTING MARRIED. When we had our kids, it was HOLY SHIT, THERE IS A BABY COMING OUT OF MY WIFE. There's no deeper analysis. It's just me repeating my situation to myself. If I were ever on a bomb squad, we'd all be dead within the hour.

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Gage:

Have you ever used a bathroom that has a TV in the shitter? I stayed at a hotel once in D.C. and there was a TV mounted right on the wall in front of the toilet. Most. Amazing. Thing. Ever. I sat there and watched baseball long after my turd was out just because I could.

I went to a restaurant in Las Vegas once that had private pissing stalls, and each stall had a TV monitor. So I took a piss, and then just stared at the screen for an extra five minutes. As I got drunker, I'd go to the bathroom and stare at the screen for even longer. I dunno know about you, but my ability to stare at a screen is enhanced dramatically by the number of alcoholic beverages I take in. By the end of the night, each piss took me about half an hour. I'm sure I held up bathroom traffic. TV's in private urinal stalls are bad like that. But I couldn't help it. Pissing that stall was the most luxurious thing EVER. Ever hang out in a really nice bathroom, especially one you have all to yourself? God, I never want to leave those things.

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Jerome:

How long do you hold on to a good booger before finding a place to dispose of it? I usually roll it around in my fingers for about a couple minutes at least, especially if hit has that classic consistency: one part dried-up, sharp mucus chunk; and one part slimy, un-dried snot goop, in equal measures. That way you can work it together into a perfect yellowy-brown ball, and then flick it onto the beige carpeting.

I do the roll, but more for functional reasons. If I pick that booger and try to flick it immediately, it won't go anywhere. It'll stay stuck to my finger or, even worse, end up dropping onto my pants. A failed booger flick is always terrible. I thought I was done with this goddamn booger, but it just won't let go! So I do the finger roll to reduce adhesion, and ensure that I get a good, clean flick. Ideally, the booger should go all the way across the room, where it presumably dissolves into nothing and never has to be seen or dealt with ever again. Even then, that little booger ball can still end up stuck on the tip of my finger. It takes a real solid wrist action to make sure that shit is out of sight, out of mind.

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Scott:

I live near an Air Force base where the astronauts do their flight training, so there's always fighter jets flying overhead. Why is it always fucking necessary for me to make my arms grasp a piece of heavy artillery and pretend to shoot the fuckers down?

Because that's your patriotic duty as an American. You need to practice your anti-aircraft firing grip because you never know when the day will come when those aren't American planes over your head, but RUSSIAN ones. And then World War III is ON LIKE FUCKING TRON.

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I always assume any fighter jet flying over my head is actually an invading aircraft, and that a giant fireball will explode mere yards away from me within seconds of it passing by. Or I imagine the plane flying above is Japan's answer to the Enola Gay, finally arriving on our shores to deliver payback. It's not out of the realm of possibility. It's wholly plausible that those clever Japanese have been biding their time, waiting decades for the exact right time to get their vengeance. They're a very patient, sneaky race of people.

I live in an area with tons of helicopter traffic. Every time I see one up above, I always think to myself THIS IS IT. THE WAR HAS FINALLY COME HOME. It'll only be a matter of time before the shelling begins, and I'm drafted into service, and I have to say goodbye to my family and write them tender letters while stuck in a battle trench at Okinawa. Or I imagine the chopper landing right outside my house, with fifty dudes in gas masks there to abduct me and my family and take us to some evil mastermind's evil volcanic hideaway. One day, people. One day, it's gonna happen. The odds are clearly in favor of that outcome.

Joe D:

So the other day I was walking with a buddy of mine to grab some lunch during our lunch break. Because of my excitement for the impending delicious Chipotle Burrito I was about to scarf down, my senses were on full alert. I smelled something familiar, yet extremely perplexing.

I stopped on the sidewalk, sniffed the air again fully, turned to my friend and asked, "Do you smell that??" Nonchalantly he replied, "You mean the Bust-a-Nut Trees?" I was dumbfounded. First off, I'm 22 and in all my jacking experience, have never recognized the smell of these trees before in my life. Second, these trees really do smell EXACTLY LIKE JIZZ. I'm guessing it's the pollen in some trees that smells exactly like human jizz, which would be really cool.

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According to Urban Dictionary (which is never wrong), the tree you're asking about is called the Bradford Pear tree. It is described thusly:

SEMEN TREE: Another name for the Bradford Pear, and ornamental pear tree. Characterized by greenish-white flowers, which smell like a cross between old semen, dirty vagina, and rotting fried shrimp. Common throughout the South, these trees are pleasantly located near eateries and other fine establishments.

I've never been around this tree, but yeah, that doesn't sound like a pleasant experience at all. I've been around trees that smell like old mildew or general dogshit, but a tree that smells like ejaculate is most dastardly, indeed. What if it actually CAN jizz? What if it jizzes all over you? It could happen, people.

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Andrew:

Forget Osama, this Buick is hunting the number 8.

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I'll get you, number eight. If it's the last thing I do! Think you can get away with murder thanks to your sexy curves? You've got another thing coming!

Time for a GREAT MOMENT IN FART HISTORY. Reader X sends in a story I call FART RACE 2000:

I was at a house party with some friends getting hammered like you're supposed to during the winter of sophomore year. We're all blind drunk by the time it's decided we need to head home. None of us are in any shape to drive, so a friend of mine convinces some random dude to drive all of us drunk retards home. The random dude is sober and has his girl with him who's pretty cute and also drunk. The seven of us pile into his old Buick Roadmaster station wagon with the fake wood grain paneling.

On the way home someone farted, so being the mature adults we all were, everyone starts laughing including the chick. The smell lingered for a bit, but was gone by the time everyone finished laughing. She though it was so funny in fact, that she decided to fart too. She called her shot, then proceeded to bust epic ass. The stench was so horrible that nobody laughed, it was just gagging sounds as we tried to roll the windows down quickly. My friend Mike was riding in the back of the wagon and got the smell last, but it hit him hardest. He gagged once and then threw up all over the people in the back seat. The driver was so pissed that he kicked all of us out of the car. We were left to walk the remaining 1.5 miles back to our house in the snow.

None of us remember anything from that night about the party, just the chick that nearly killed Mike with a fart.

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Whoa whoa whoa. You're telling me women FART? That's so gross!