Time for your weekly edition of the Deadspin Funbag. Find more of Drew's stuff at KSK or on Twitter. Preorder Drew's new book, The Postmortal, right here. Email the Funbag here. Today, we're covering prison gayness, ice cream, lingering farts, and more.

I built a new PC this weekend, and by "I built it" I mean I stood there while my brother-in-law, who knows a lot about computers, assembled it. I probably should have washed the Sun Chips cheese powder off my hands before touching the processor. It's very cool to sit there for a day and take a look at the guts of a computer and figure out how everything fits together. I felt like a bomb squad leader any time my brother-in-law asked me to screw in the motherboard or connect wires with great delicacy. I stared at the chips on the motherboard and kept hoping that I'd magically get sucked into the board and race lightcycles and shit. We connected everything and then stood before the finished machine, and that moment right before you turn on a new computer is always a terrifying one. Then the thing booted up and I felt like Theo from Die Hard when the electromagnetic seal on the Nakatomi vault opened. MERRY CHRISTMAS, BITCHES.

Your letters:

Red Bear:

You have one week until you're entered into a booger competition against another contestant. Whoever can produce the biggest booger out of their nose wins. Loser dies. What's your strategy to organically creating a monster booger in seven days? No nose picking until the actual contest!

The first thing I'd do is get myself sick. This can be easily accomplished by going to a playground and touching every apparatus, then heading to a doctor's office and licking all the doorknobs. Once ill, I would quarantine myself inside a room with a dehumidifier turned to full blast. MOISTURE IS THE ENEMY OF BOOGERS. I would also hock up any number of loogies, spit them on the floor, let them dry, then bend down and SNORT the dried snot on the floor, adding even more dried mucus to my masterpiece (if this mean I'm corking my bat, so be it). Then I'd head to the competition, pick out a booger the size of the Hope Diamond, and then throw up at the sight of it. I kind of want to do this for real now.


By the way, I have two strategies for extracting boogers from my nose, and I'm not sure either of these strategies are as efficient as they could be.

1. THE SPEAR AND STICK. I jam my finger in my nose, press my finger against the booger, and hope that the booger is sticky enough to adhere to my fingertip as I pull it out.

2. THE STAB AND SLIDE. I press the booger against the inner wall of my nostril, then DRAG the booger down the side until it comes out. Sometimes, the booger is on the outside wall of the nostril, and when I try and pull it out, the ridge of my nostril prevents a clean extraction, which is so unfair. Now there's a giant nose goblin parked right at the base of my nose and I have to go back in. PICKIN' AIN'T EASY.


Do you feel that it's best to refrain from watching R/NC-17 rated movies or HBO/Showtime shows with sexytime on airplanes where your screen is visible to others? Smartphones do not count because the screen is too small. We're talking laptops and tablets. Whenever I get ready for a trip it's a pain to go through my collection and think about scenes in the movie that might offend other passengers. Or, sometimes when I'm watching something I haven't seen before, BAM, titties right square on the screen. From there, I start frantically looking around to see if anyone's giving me the stink-eye. Should I even care?

Obviously, a lot of it depends on who's sitting next to you on the plane. If you're on a redeye and everyone is asleep but you, I fail to see how watching Color of Night on your iPad offends anyone's sensibilities other than your own. And it's not like you can't redirect the screen during some of the naughtier parts. You're not watching porn. You're watching LEGITIMATE THEATER, so I'd bring whatever movies you'd like and then adjust depending upon your seatmates.


At Union Station on July 4th.

Very nice. The handicapped spot is the kicker.

Dolores O'Riordan:

This morning I farted when I got to my desk. This is a fairly innocuous thing as I arrive at work relatively early when there are very few people around, and generally no one starts to bother me for an hour or so.

Anyway, I let this silent but VERY deadly fart slip. I think someone was feeding me rotten eggs in my sleep. After about five minutes, the smell was dissipating but definitely still hanging around. At that point the director of my department decided to come over to leave a garbage can from a seldom-used room near my desk so it would be picked up by housekeeping. As she set it down she said, "I think it smells." She stuck her nose in it and took a whiff. "No, it's not that." She proceeded to set it down and sniff around the area around my desk. "I think it might be something over here. Do you smell something?"

"Uh, no," I said. "I don't think so."

What the fuck am I supposed to say in this situation? "Yes, I definitely smell something. It's my lingering fart."

If she's too fucking stupid to put two and two together, I think you should feed her a steady stream of clues that compels her to keep sniffing your fart. "Gee whiz, if it's not the garbage can, then maybe it's coming from my desk? No? Hmm. Maybe the chair? You know, it could be the chair. I read an article once about an office worker who pranked his boss by putting a dead fish in his chair. Do you think that happened to me? WHAT KIND OF SICK PERSON WOULD DO THAT? I think you should sniff the cushion to make sure. Yes, that's right. SNIFF GOOD. Take it all in. The more you smell, the closer you get to solving the mystery. ASSHOLE."


By the way, I had a personal GREAT MOMENT IN FART HISTORY last night. My wife went to the grocery store yesterday and brought back these Rainier cherries, these big fat white cherries that are goddamn delicious. So I ate one. Then I ate some more. Then I ate more and more until I'd eaten, like, a pound. You aren't supposed to eatthat many cherries. Cherries, as you know, cause explosive gas (it's an omen that when you remove the stem from a cherry, the hole it leaves looks like a butthole, which never ceases to bring me great joy). So I went to the gym last night with all these cherries in my system and I just start cutting rotting farts all over the place. I'm on the elliptical and these farts are constantly seeping out of me. My sphincter doesn't even bother to close. It just stays open as this toxic leak wafts into the air. And the smell was BRUTAL. So I'm horrified that I'm doing this and I can't stop, but no one is saying anything to me and after a while, I just sit back and bask in it. It's like I'm committing murder in broad daylight. Utterly thrilling. Anyway, stay away from Rainier cherries.


If you were forced to go back and fight in a major war for any side, using that era's weapons, which war would you pick? Has to be WW2, right?

It has to be. That's the gold standard for wars. I'd pick WW2, and I'd pick the European front so I could kill Nazis. No overheating the Pacific, fuck you very much.

Although... Listen, I'm a proud American. But there isn't a day that goes by when I don't wish I had license to grab a musket and mow down rednecks from the South with impunity. So the Civil War would be tempting. But the weaponry and lack of anesthesia would be a dealbreaker. I don't want to sit there like the dude from Glory and spend ten minutes loading my gun while Billyjoejimbob is charging me with a bayonet. That's nerve-racking.

not your vidis:

This car is fresh from being pulled over by a Virginia state cop for speeding.

Of course it's a BMW.


How much should you lower your standards for a threesome?

So much so that one of the girls involved could probably be a guy and you'd still do it. I mean, most guys want to have threesomes just so they can say they had one. So honestly, if it's a 500-pound woman and a herpetic ape asking you back to their place for an orgy, you may as well go. No one's gonna give a shit about the details anyway.


Is there any superpower you would want to have (invisibility, immortality, ability to fly, etc) that you would want so bad you would trade you ability to jerk off for it? Like say the devil came and said "You can have [BLANK] superpower, but as part of the deal, you won't be able to whack it anymore for the rest of life." Now you could still use your powers to impress women get them to sleep with you, but never could you dance alone again. Would you do it? And if so what power would you go for? I think the only one that would make it worthwhile would be the ability to manipulate people's minds like Professor X, so you could get women to give you a hand job any time you wanted. But is that superpower even worth it?

Oh, sure. Obviously, it would suck to lose that ability at the beginning, but under your conditions, you literally CAN'T jerk off, so you don't have to worry about having to restrain yourself from doing so. That would be much worse. If the Devil came up to me and said, "Listen Fucko, you can fly now. But the second you jerk off, you drop dead," then I'd be fucked. I'd never make it if I couldn't jerk off but still had the ability to do so. But if I were rendered autoerotically impotent? O HELLZ YEZ. I'll trade that to fly any fucking day. It would be a relief, frankly. And no one on the ground would have to worry about me skyjerking. Because if I were high enough in the air and no one was looking, I would certainly be tempted. Imagine the sordid thrill you'd get masturbating 1,000 feet over NYC without people knowing you were doing it. THAT'S NOT BIRD POOP ON YOUR SHOULDER, LADY.


Do you think Casey Anthony had lesbian jail sex? If not, when was the last time you think she had sex? I bet she's had sex since being released. And I really hope she had lesbian jail sex.

I don't think she had lesbian jail sex because I think you only dedicate yourself fully to prison homosexuality once you've been found guilty. If there's still hope you're gonna be released, you may not be ready to relinquish your gay card if you aren't gay (this is assuming that Casey Anthony isn't bisexual, which isn't a very good assumption because she seems like she's READY TO PARTY). For example, let's say someone accused me of killing Will Leitch. Not that I would kill Leitch. He's all right, I guess. But anyway, Leitch is found brutally murdered and I'm the chief suspect, so then I get thrown in county while I stand trial. If the choice is mine (and that's obviously not a given), there's NO WAY I'm turning prison gay until that conviction comes down. But after I get that life sentence? Hey look, a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do. And if that means a man has to sell his anus to get the occasional ounce of weed during a life sentence, then I have a hard choice to make.



My dog woke me up at 4:30 in the morning yesterday to go to the bathroom, and then stupidly wanted to play. Which got me to thinking: what's the worst time in the night to be woken up by a baby, pet, or other interruption? 4:30 struck me as horrible because going back to sleep would take time and only result in another hour or so of mediocre sleep, but maybe 12:45 is worse? (Assuming it's a weeknight, work the next morning, no alcohol, etc.).

Closer to midnight is worse, and the reason why is because you've just entered the deepest stages of slumber (assuming, as Johnny noted, you're sober and going to bed around 10 or 11 or whatever). I can only speak for myself on this, but when I get woken up at midnight by a fucking dog or a fucking kid, I feel like someone just punched me out of a coma. I barely know where I am. I certainly don't feel like I've only slept two hours. All my sleep momentum is destroyed. And then I try and get back to sleep and the whole goddamn night is ahead of me. And even if I do get back to sleep, that sleep is never as good as those first couple clean hours before the racket woke me up. If it were socially acceptable, I'd sleep in a soundproof coffin.


Would you be able to rank the planets in our solar system in order from the gayest to the least gay? Uranus would be the obvious choice in my mind; but Saturn's got those fruity rings, so we might have a contest here.

Earth is the gayest planet. No other planet in the solar system contains gay people, whereas Earth has millions of them, if not more. Plus Earth has butterflies and ponies and all sorts of other gay things that a supposedly gay planet like Uranus should have but does not. If Planet Unicorn were in our solar system, it would rank #1, but for now Earth takes it.

Least gay? MARS. Desolate. Mysterious. Cold. It's the Clive Owen of planets. Very heterosexual.


Felt compelled to email you this strange phenomenon that appears on my kitchen floor during sunny afternoons.

SUN DONG! It shall lead us to the location of the lost city of Tanis, last resting spot of the Lost Ark!


Have you ever shaken someone's hand and wondered, "When was the last time this person masturbated?"

Every time I shake it. And if I'M the one who has just masturbated, you can bet I get a sordid thrill out of shaking someone's hand without them knowing that I just spent five minutes shooting frosting out of the pastry bag. OR CAN THEY? Is there something in my countenance that might be giving me away? Does my smug expression say to any and all new acquaintances that I'm a depraved pervert? OH GOD EVERYONE KNOWS, DON'T THEY?


This is why the fist pound is becoming so popular. Knuckles don't touch the peepee unless you're the creative type.


This guy was driving in front of me the other day. I got lucky when he went to the same bar I was headed to, allowing me to get some better pictures of his motorcycle/back-of-a-car hybrid.

That is the weirdest goddamn thing I've ever seen. And why does he need cargo pants? You just grafted the back of a fucking car to your motorcycle. Are you really that hard up for free space? Buy a van. Don't try slipping your half-hog past people without them noticing.


As a parent, is there anything that turns to shit faster than taking little kids out for ice cream? It always starts promising, since you know, ice cream. Of course, little kids don't understand the concept of "melting" until half the ice cream has trickled down their forearm. First the parent has to tell the kid to eat faster. Which they never do. Invariably, I end up yelling at the kid to eat faster and/or just taking a huge bite of the remaining ice cream to delay the inevitable melt.

I always offer to lick the cone clean for the child periodically, which involves me grabbing the cone and tonguing the drips off the rim. Basically, I'm tossing the cone's salad (I do this with my own cone as well, digging my tongue deeper down into the cone before I absolutely have to start biting into the cone, because I'm weird). My older kid is okay with this arrangement. The younger kid would sooner burn to death than relinquish the cone under any circumstances. He'll just stand there and paste himself with chocolate ice cream until he looks like he's starring in Bamboozled 2.


I never learn my lesson with kids and ice cream. I always get it for them, it's always a blast to see them happy to get ice cream, and then the next three hours with them are MISERY, because they're loaded with sugar and they don't understand at all why they can't have ice cream AGAIN, and for every course of every meal. And I have to explain to them that they can't because it's bad for them but they're too fucking stupid to grasp the nuances of that argument. So they cry and cry and cry and I get so mad because YOU LITTLE TIT I JUST GAVE YOU ICE CREAM, HOW DARE YOU BE UNGRATEFUL.

That's the worst thing when you're a parent, when your kids are ungrateful. Because they are. For example, I'll cook a meal for my kid, and when I serve it to the kid, the kid doesn't merely not eat the food. As if that weren't bad enough. No, the second the kid lays eyes on the food, they burst into fucking tears and start bitching about how much they don't want to eat it. And then I have to leave the room because it's all I can do from wanting to sell the child to the Salvation Army. YOU KNOW HOW LUCKY YOU ARE WE EVEN HAVE COUS COUS? WHEN I WAS KID WE ATE WOOD AND ROCKS!


Say you are on a road trip for work, you stop in a Starbucks, it has only 1 bathroom working. You go in and notice the sort of attractive woman co-worker walking up behind you, obviously wanting to use the hole after you. No biggie, you just have to piss. WRONG. You get in there and some asshole has pissed all over the seat. Now what the fuck do you do? If you leave it, said woman will think you did it, and obviously tell everyone your pissing on the seat problems. But do you clean up some other unknown man's piss?

Oof. That's an impossible situation. Let's be clear here: If you're cleaning up another man's piss for the sake of a woman, you had BETTER hook up with her. Marry her, even. You're all in once you cross that line. You're like the 2011 Eagles: Anything short of a title will be a huge letdown. Wiping that man's piss off the seat is basically making a promise to yourself that SHE WILL BE YOURS. If you aren't willing to make that promise, then fuck it. Leave it.


By the way, if someone not only pisses on the seat but leaves a huge growler in the can, you are allowed by law to walk out of the bathroom WARNING everyone in line about what the person before you did. "You don't wanna go in there. Bad things, man. BAD THINGS."


Who do you think would win in a fight: a UFC fighter vs. you (average
male) with an aluminum baseball bat?

The UFC fighter, because the UFC fighter would know how to avoid the bat and disarm me, and then they'd murder me with it. Even if I got a lick in, the UFC fighter would be well-trained enough to absorb the blow and keep attacking, whereas I would get punched once and then melt into the canvas like a fucking piss stain. I wouldn't even beat the UFC fighter if I had a GUN. The UFC fighter would fail to stand still, then I'd miss, then he'd take the gun and shoot me.


Given that we were in Oakland, CA I made sure to stay at least two car lengths back.

He's just saying what we all know to be true!


Watching the USWNT made me wonder what the first layer is for those players. Could there be any lace whatsoever under all the under armour? Or does someone make the young, athletic equivalent of granny panties?

Under Armour also makes panties, which look like regular panties, only if they were designed by some steakhead living in Northern Maryland. There appear to also be sports underwear for women that look like booty shorts, though with more an emphasis on function than on monster booty, alas. There are also compression shorts and panties that look like this, which is way hot. I seriously doubt there's a lace thong under Hope Solo's goalie outfit, but that shouldn't stop you from THINKING it's there, hoping to encounter her in the locker room just as she's about to strip off all those wet, sweaty clothes, looking for a bit of relief after a tough, rugged day of playing footsie with her galpals. NUH MEAN?!


I get very annoyed with commentators who complain about "sports hotness," the idea that a hot female athlete is only hot because in comparison to other female athletes. That completely fails to take into account the actual hotness of the act of a woman playing sports. Because it's crazy hot. They're out there runnin' and gruntin', and man that'll rev your engine.



I had the fun of being piss tested by the NCAA. (Hooray for piss testing redshirted dummy holders instead of people that actually play!) Anyhow, all the lucky selectees had to show up to a "secure location" in our field house, and once we arrived we couldn't leave until the test was finished.

The NCAA had three representatives (two men, one woman) there to administer the test. We got to lounge on comfy couches and drink water, juice, or soda. They didn't have a set deadline that you had to piss by, in fact the guy in charge kept reminding us that, "we'll be here all day if we have to be." I was holding out as long as possible because it meant I got to miss offseason conditioning.

Eventually guys started leaving to go take the test. I saw them leave the couch area but not leave the site. It turns out all six of the guys that went first failed to fill the cup because they got stage fright from the guy watching them. The guy would march them back from the stall and "Induct them into the Partial-Pissers Club" which consisted of making them sit on a bench holding a partially filled cup of their own piss. Luckily, I had slammed about 5 sodas so by the time I had to go I REALLY had to go and got it on the first shot. Moral of the story? The folks at the NCAA are a bunch of dicks.

Jesus, that sounds awful. It just goes to show you, you should never be an athlete.

/rips bong hit