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

The easiest test of human intelligence is taking someone to Taco Bell and seeing if they order a drink size bigger than small, even though the refills are free. Now, your letters:

Linda:

My 60 year old father is marrying a the 30 year old Vegas showgirl whom he left my mother for, within the month. This woman is 3 years older than me. I hate this gold digging slut with every fiber of my being, and I want nothing more than to destroy her picture perfect wedding day, which is to take place at the $2 million dollar estate which she forced my father to purchase for her and her two illegitimate children.

How can I ruin this affair without getting caught and/or found out? Some ideas I've thought of are: stink bombs, blowup dolls on the lawn, and lighting bags of my own shit on fire... Yes, that's how dedicated I am to this cause, I would shit into a paper bag. What is the most foolproof idea and the one that will leave a lasting impression on their union, which in my opinion won't last any longer than 30 days? Why couldn't he just buy a sports car instead of a home wrecking whore? Oh wait... he did that too.

PS: I'm not even invited to this wedding, and I found out about it via a text message from another family member.

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Holy Jesus Christ on the cross! That's the worst thing I've ever heard. I want to find this new future stepmom and strangle her for you. Which I could do, if one were to pay me a considerable sum for my troubles…?

/cocks eyebrow

Luckily, you're asking someone who has already ruined a wedding in his career. When I was seven, I went to my cousin Connie's wedding in LA, and I accidentally turned on the spinkler system during the reception, drenching the bride, groom, reverend, and nearly electrocuting the videographer (I do not feel guilty about the latter, because videographers are all terrifying people who almost certainly have snuff film collections in their attic). This is why it's an unspoken rule of most weddings that your fat, stupid children are not welcome. I never saw my cousin again after that. I don't blame her. But it WAS way fucking cool to see those sprinklers go on. They were so sprinkly! Also, her house had a full suit of armor in the staircase and I got to touch it when no one was looking. Winner: DREW.

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Anyway, there are two things that interest me here. First off, your dad bought his trophy bride a $2 million house. That means he's rich. Normally, I'd tell you to take the high road, so that you don't get cut out of the will. However, you weren't invited to the ceremony and were notified of it only by text, which suggests to me that you're ALREADY cut out of the will. CRIMINY! That means you have nothing to lose by destroying the wedding. How marvelous.

You're going to need a disguise. May I suggest the Bobby Valentine? It knows no seasonality:

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I would walk right into the wedding if I were you. I've never been to wedding that required you to show an invite. They're very easy to crash. So I'd walk in ten minutes before the ceremony and take a seat at the back in the corner. Before every wedding, every asshole in the crowd looks around the hall to see who else is in attendance. Is there anyone I know here? Is there anyone here who looks really hot that I could have sex with or masturbate to? Everyone scans the crowd, which means you need to sit in the corner and stick your head in the program, which was no doubt printed on very expensive paper at the behest of your new stepmom, who is a whore who went way overboard while shopping for programs and invites at Papyrus.

Next thing you need: an iPod with a powerful portable speaker system. Here are five such models. I like the Saitek A-200. It has a "bottom firing subwoofer," which sounds like a nickname for my penis but isn't. Next, download "War Ensemble" by Slayer and have it queued up on your iPod, ready to play. Place the iPod and the speaker system under a table at the opposite corner of the hall, where it cannot be seen. Have a remote ready in your handbag.

Next, a gun. You're going to need a gun that's portable and light. I doubt there'll be a metal detector at the wedding. Again, most weddings are poorly secured. By one at your local Vegas pawn shop and conceal it in the cleavage of your evening gown, because concealing a small gun in your cleavage is way hot if you're a chick.

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When every woman daydreams about their future wedding, it almost always involves the walk down the aisle. That's the money portion of the wedding. So I'd wait until the processional music over and everyone is waiting with baited breath for the bride to appear. Then the wedding music will come on and the doors to the banquet room open to reveal the bride in her dress. She's gonna be all smiley and happy and on the verge of tears. THAT IS WHEN YOU STRIKE. Press play on the Slayer song. Everyone will stare at the opposite corner of the room to figure out where the music is coming from and why. Jump out into the aisle while everyone is distracted. Put the gun to the bride's temple, and say WHO'S YOUR MOMMY NOW, BITCH?! Then pull that sweet trigger and turn that white wedding into a red funeral. WAR ENSEMBULLLLLLLLLL! WAR ENSEMBULLLLLLLLLL!!!!

On second thought, maybe that's a bad idea, given that it's illegal and what not. Perhaps it's better to simply not go and let your father discover for himself the long road of misery that awaits him when he makes an expensive commitment to cheap fucking.

Or put a bag of bees down the chimney. Gotta like the bag of bees.

(On a related note, there's a perverse joy to be had in attending terrible weddings like this, especially if you have no affiliation with the families involved. I went to a wedding once that featured four sets of divorced parents who all hated each other, and every toast was just a giant passive aggressive dig at other people in the room. It was a BLAST. It was like getting drunk on the set of Dynasty. I really enjoyed it.)

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Titansfan78:

Who is the worst famous person to follow in the bathroom? My friend said Shaq because of his size, but my vote is for Andrew Zimmern, the guy on "Bizarre Foods" on the Travel Channel. The stuff he eats has to create some epic funk.

I too would be concerned to follow Zimmern into the shitter and see that he left a school of rectal eel parasites swimming in the bowl. But the correct answer to your question is Cybill Shepherd, who is a spokeswoman for people suffering from irritable bowel syndrome. So, if you follow her into the shitter, not only are you hit with an ungodly smell, but an ungodly smell coming from a woman who used to be one of the most gorgeous women on the face of the Earth, back in her Taxi Driver days. Smelling her poop would make you feel old, depressed, and unhorny all at once.

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I'd also be wary of following any bodybuilders into the can. Ever smell the shit of someone who's been taking Whey Fuel 8000 for four years? Don't.

George:

So I'm sitting at my desk pretending to work and just trying to get through the Friday, when a cockroach the size of a Cadillac crawls out of a crevice in my cubicle and up the wall.

I spent the next 2 minutes staring at it and trying to find a suitable object to destroy it with. For some reason I picked a stapler thinking that smashing it into oblivion would be the best plan. So I bided my time and then tried to fucking sledgehammer it into the side of my cubicle. But I missed and it climbed over the divider into the next cubicle and nearly gave the poor woman working there a heart attack. This naturally caused an office-wide panic and 5 minutes later it was back in my cubicle. This time I got it right and crushed that thing like the fucking homerun derby. For about 30 seconds I felt like a fucking hero, but now I'm left with the remains of the alien bug from men in black glued to my wall and the knowledge that my office is infected with the plague. I'm never going to be able to work for more than 2 minutes without looking at every crack and crevice expecting this Cadillac cockroach's siblings to come screaming out, seeking revenge. This has to constitute a hostile workplace environment, right? I would be far less disturbed if a senior executive propositioned me to lick his butthole.

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I agree. Every American worker has the right to a roach-free office space, and if your boss needs to spend $25,000 to fumigate that shit, he should be forced by law to spend it.

I had roaches in my office a couple times. I'm deathly afraid of roaches and act like a complete gash whenever I see one. So I see this roach scurry out near the copier. And I tell my boss.

ME: THERE'S A BIG FUCKING ROACH ON THE FLOOR!

BOSS: (stays on phone, shrugs)

ME: You're not gonna do anything?

BOSS: (keeps talking on phone)

So I grab a heavy stock photo book, creep up to the roach, drop the book on the roach, and then stomp on the book fifty times. My boss sees me do this, than hangs up the phone.

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BOSS: The fuck are you doing?

ME: Killing the roach.

BOSS: Like that? Jesus, you're a pussy.

ME: You're the fuckface who let vermin into our work environment! You should be giving me a medal, you fuck!

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Then he asked me to clean the roach goop off the stock photo book. I refused. It's my stance that the bug killer is absolved from all bug-related cleanup. I think it's totally fair, which is why I often smash flies at home and then leave them dead on the windowsill for others to pick up.

By the way, there are few moments in life worse than planning your assault on a bug, working up the courage for that first strike, going for the kill, and then missing and seeing the bug A) Scurry out of sight, or B) COME RIGHT AT YOU. That's a terrifying moment, when the bug flies away from your shoe and right into your grill. The tables have turned! He's on the attack! YOU SHOULD HAVE KILLED HIM WHEN YOU HAD THE CHANCE! GAHHHHHHHHHH!!!!

Ray:

I challenge you to consider how many hours you spend, in the span of one week, listening to a laugh track. The answer will astound you. I've come to the conclusion that I spend anywhere between 15-30 minutes a week doing nothing but moronically listening to synthetic laughter. Have you ever started noticing the laugh track during a sitcom and paid attention to that and nothing else? You literally cannot follow the story line anymore. This single-handedly ruined Seinfeld for me. There's always the one laugher that laughs louder than everyone else, as if he were trying to prove something.

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I usually never had a problem with laugh tracks, so long as the track appeared during a portion of the show that I could reasonably assume was taped before a live studio audience. For example, on "Seinfeld," they always recorded the apartment scenes in front of an actual audience. I'm sure they added a laugh track anyway, but at least there was a reasonable possibility that people were sitting in chairs and actually laughing while the show was being taped.

But then the show would shift to somewhere like a car, or a street, and it was obvious that the audience was no longer there, but the track would keep going. And THAT would fuck me up. Because it's so obvious that the crowd isn't there anymore. Do you producers think I'm so dumb that I couldn't figure that out? That's when my ears would really pick up on the artificiality of the track and everything would be ruined. British sitcoms, oddly enough, are the worst about this.

Lots of people think laugh tracks are inherently evil. But that's not true. It's that they're often used so poorly. Laugh tracks worked on old shows like "Cheers," (which mixed live audience reaction with a track) because most of the episodes stayed in a single location. The laugh track let you know there was a certain spirit of live performance to the proceedings. I don't think those shows would have been improved without them there. Probably the opposite. People are sheep. If you go to a movie theater and everyone laughs at what's on screen, YOU laugh at what's on screen. The laugh track can work the same way. It can make you feel like you have a bit of company while you're jerking off to Jennifer Aniston on an old "Friends" rerun, and that's nice.

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Laugh tracks have mostly gone away from televised comedy. None of the best comedies on TV (Parks and Recreation, Modern Family, Louie) deploy a laugh track. Only CBS and Tyler Perry still think using a laugh track is a good idea. There could very well come a day soon when not a single show on the air uses one. Not a bad sign of progress.

HALFTIME!

Jason:

Why does ESPN play so many ESPN commercials during ESPN programming? Do they have more commercial time available than they can sell? A lot of it isn't even for a specific program, it's just for the network itself. I could understand if it was on a different channel but it's ESPN advertising on ESPN. We are already fucking watching ESPN.

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The worst is when the scores are going by on the BottomLine and there's a RIGHT NOW tab that slides over to tell you YOU ARE WATCHING: RAVENS VS. JETS. Really? No fucking shit, asshole.

I know there are times when you flip the channel and you can be disoriented and not know exactly what you're watching. But this is cable. Every cable box comes with a digital guide now telling you what it is you're watching. Press the INFO button and presto! You now know it's Ravens vs. Jets. Oh, and there's already a score box on the screen with the team names. I have no fucking idea why ESPN does this. I have no idea why virtually every network does this.

I watch "Project Runway" (because I'm gay, and because I like letting the world know that Gretchen is a cunt), and this season the network decided to put a bug on the screen that says YOU ARE WATCHING PROJECT RUNWAY during the entire 90 minutes of the show. The bug is HUGE. It takes up a full quadrant of the screen. Again, I have a digital guide on my cable box that tells me precisely what I'm watching when I flip the channel. So who the fuck is this bug for? What fucking service does it provide? It's so clear to me that places like ESPN are so big and bureaucratic and retarded that someone figured it was a good idea to brand every goddamn show within an inch of its life, even though it clearly serves no practical function of any kind. It's basically ESPN saying to you, "We are too big and too fucking stupid to actually sit down and think about what it is we're showing you." They may as well put up a giant graphic on the screen that says WE DON'T GIVE A SHIT, particularly any game Joe Morgan is broadcasting.

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(On a related note, I get extremely pissed at my digital guide when it fails to provide me with adequate info about a show. For example, whenever the Simpsons comes on, the DirecTV info guide will tell me The Simpsons is "the adventures of Homer, Marge, Bart, Maggie, and Lisa in Springfield." No shit, DirecTV. I know the gist of the show. But what fucking episode is it? Is it a season six masterpiece? Or is it from the horrid fifteenth season of something like that? Assholes.)

Non-Mormon stuck in Utah:

Do you have any items that you ALWAYS buy at the grocery store if it is on sale? Mine is toothpaste. If I see toothpaste for less than $2, I will never pass that deal by. I have no less than 5 tubes of full toothpaste that may or may not expire before I get to them. Last time I was at the store, I got two tubs of toothpaste for a total of $0.75 because they were a dollar each and I had two coupons. Made my day. My girlfriend, who gets home tonight from a week-long trip home to see family, thinks I am an idiot and crazy, but I am never going to pay too much for toothpaste.

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Agreed. If I see something on sale that I like, I always buy enough of it to keep the family stocked through a full-on nuclear attack. Especially cereal. If the Cocoa Puffs are on sale that day, four fucking boxes go right in the cart. I don't care if we lack closet space. I don't care that Cocoa Puffs are "nothing but sugar" or "could cause blindness in children". They're on sale, and they may never go sale ever again. I also buy the jumbo sized container of any product if its cheaper by weight. I don't care that we don't have fridge space for a 567 oz of Heinz. MAKE IT WORK, MISSY.

I went to the store the other day and saw the Chocolate Chex were on sale. Not only were they on sale, but they were being discontinued. I nearly passed out from the sadness. Box after box went right into the cart. I may sell them on eBay twenty years from now, in mint condition. I am a genius.

I also take my wife to task on the matter of expiration dates. She'll throw out medicine if it's expired. YOU FOOL! It's a pill. How can it go bad? Do you realize the street value of that Hydrocodone? Daulerio will pay REAMS for it. I get expiration dates for things like milk and cheese and meats. But I'm not obeying the expiration date on a box of fucking Q-Tips. Sorry. Those are bullshit.

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Zack:

Did you know that you can personalize a ringback tone? The ringback tone is the 'ringing' sound you hear when you call somebody, and apparently you can replace it with whatever you want. I hadn't heard of this until I had to make a few calls to the same woman at work. Each time I called her, I had to listen to the Notre Dame fight song instead of the little ringing sound. I can't think of a worse choice of song or a more annoying invention. It's one thing to overhear someone's stupid ringtone when their phone rings, but to have their crap taste in music put directly in you ear - maddening. I don't think this will catch on with many people who are over 14 but still, what a terrible way to ruin a phone call before it starts.

Oh wow, that is awful. I've never heard of that, nor have I experienced such a thing. But if I called someone and had to listen to the Notre Dame fight song before they picked up, I would never call that person again. Ever. I would mail them pictures of my feces every day until they changed it. Then I would change my ringback tone to "War Ensemble" and program to voicemail to pick up only after 67 rings, so they have to listen to the song thirty times before leaving a message. This is why everyone texts now.

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By the way, you ever have a friend who can't record a proper voicemail greeting? I'm not talking about morons who have jokey voicemail greetings. I mean friends you call and the voicemail picks up and you have to listen to ten seconds of someone sitting a room while a goddamn Beastie Boys song plays in the background before the voicemail beeps? I hate friends like that. Again, this is why everyone texts now. Calling people is a crummy consumer experience.

James:

What would you guess the average timespan is from first jerk-off to first time having sex? Obviously, once you discover masturbation, you can't wait to take it up a notch. But, it takes time; I'd put the over/under at 5 years.

I ask because I feel like I've got to be the exception in this regard: I had no conception of the whole "masturbation" thing and so didn't start the clock running until well into my freshman year of high school. Time to real sex (TRS): 1.5 years. Thoughts?

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My thoughts? YOU FUCKER. Those are my thoughts. Anyway, we can figure out this average timespan through statistics. The average male loses his virginity at 17 years old (17.3 years, according to an old study conducted by Durex condoms). The average boy begins puberty at 11 or 12 years old. Let's assume most boys begin jacking it regularly sometime soon after puberty hits. That would leave us at 12 years old, just to be safe. So the five years James guessed looks pretty solid.

And now to see where I stack up…

/first jacked off at 11

/lost virginity at age 20

/does tricky subtraction

So nine years. About double the average time. I HATE ALL OF YOU.

Josh:

I live in Savannah, GA and thunderstorms with huge amounts of lightning are an everyday occurence. As I was going to take a shower last night my wife tells me that I should not shower during lightning storms. I have never heard of this and went to double check online. So from now on I will be paranoid of my hair standing up on end. Also not taking anymore showers during lightning.

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"Do not take a shower or bath during a thunderstorm. Lightning travels easily through metal pipes." Jesus! Lightning is evil! It's like The Blob. I don't approve.

Secretly, I've always wanted to be struck by lightning. Yes, I know it can kill you. But there's also the possibility that the lightning could electrify my blood and give me the power to shoot lightning out of my fingertips and power unplugged appliances simply by touching them. It's almost worth the gamble.

Time now for an absolutely stellar GREAT MOMENT IN WORLD WAR II POOP HISTORY:

This was always a favorite story of my grandfather from his days during WWII. He was with a hospital unit (He was old when war broke out, he was not a pussy. Let's make that clear.)

Whenever the hospital moved (which was frequently, as the fucking krauts retreated), a new latrine had to be constructed. This was described to me as a wooden shack with roughly a dozen heads with dividers between each stall. Now, underneath was dug one big hole for all of shit. It was just a single hole, so each shitter was, in a way, connected. This becomes key for the cleaning process.

So the vile amounts of GI shit wouldn't get too overbearing, standard practice every night was for one man to dump gasoline/kerosene down each hole and then drop a match, and let it all burn away. The flames were never intense enough to actually burn the shack down, but flames were nonetheless immediately underneath, sometimes emanating from the holes.

Well, one day bad things happened. Soldier A was tasked with the burning of the shit. He dutifully dumped the fuel down each hole to get maximum coverage for the burn. Of course, when it came time to light the inferno, he had forgotten a match. Soldier A went back to his tent to get matches. While Soldier A was getting the match, Soldier B entered to take a shit, parked himself in the far stall, as any man would and does, for maximum privacy, and went about his business.

Soldier A came back, did not recheck the latrine for new arrivals, and dropped the lit match in Head #1, lighting a large, combined blaze beneath all the heads as the fuel from each drop ignited. Soldier B came running out with his ass on fire, screaming. Third degree burns on his ass, mid-shit.

One of my grandfather's duties, when he wasn't running the company's craps game or guarding the beer supply (someone had to do it), was giving out and determining who got a Purple Heart. Soldier B tried to get one for his 'war wounds' before he got shipped back to the States. My grandfather had to turn him down since it wasn't combat related. Too bad. Back then it turns out all friendly fire did not count.

P.S. My grandfather eventually got his own Purple Heart. There were leftovers at the end of the war and, ah, let's just say there was an accounting error.

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That's just about the best story ever right there.

/waits for some dick to check snopes.com and tell me it's fake