Who wins a fight between a lion and 40 dwarfs? I contend that it depends on the arena. In an enclosed space like a typical suburban basement, the dwarfs can swarm and take down the lion. In an open space like a high school gymnasium, the lion can run around and swat the midgets one-at-a-time.
So the dwarfs are unarmed? The lion owns them, regardless of venue. The lion is faster, stronger, has razor-sharp teeth and claws, AND has the intimidation factor. The lion isn't afraid of your army of Dinklages. Imagine you're one of the 40 little people assigned to fight the lion. Does having 39 of your closest dwarf buddies lessen your fear at all? FUCK AND NO. You're still gonna be scared shitless. You're still gonna attack that lion with otherworldly reluctance, which is all the lion needs to tear you limb from limb.
In the very best case, the lion gets busy eating ONE dwarf, which gives the others time to jump on it. But what then? There's only so much room on its body to grab, and dwarfs have such chubby little fingers. They won't be able to choke it, and they won't be able to crush it under their collective body weight. The lion would be able to shake them off and attack a few at a time. You're out of luck, Dinklages.
How much longer will Tiger remain relevant? No other golfer in the world gets any kind of TV coverage when they are five strokes off the lead at 15 on Sunday. Is this like a Tebow thing where as long as he plays ESPN will have a hard-on for him and still expect him to win every major?
Pretty much. The people at ESPN aren't stupid. They know that when the average casual sports fan tunes into a golf major and they don't see Tiger Woods on the screen, the first thing they ask is HEY, WHERE THE FUCK IS TIGER? And ESPN knows that the likelihood of anyone coming along who can threaten Woods' career accomplishments is practically nonexistent. Phil Mickelson wins lots of majors and stuff, but only middle-aged men who work at law firms think he's some kind of hero. Only Tiger Woods will have the drawing power of Tiger Woods, from now until the day he dies of syphilis at the relatively young age of 59.
And it's not as if Woods is currently a nonfactor in the sport. He still wins lots of tournaments. He still has the ability to win major titles, which means his storyline will continue to get pushed, perhaps even into his 50s, and certainly into his 40s (plenty of people have won majors in their 40s). Golf is the kind of sport where old dudes make little runs on the first day or so all the time ("Freddy Couples shot a 66 you guys!"), so ESPN can cut to Tiger any time he so much as sniffs a leaderboard. That means that you're still gonna get lots of "Tiger's lurking!" and "Tiger's still in the hunt!" over the next decade and a half. So long as he participates, they'll milk that teat, and Rick Reilly will continue writing columns titled "If You Don't Think Tiger's Back, You're About As Sharp As Betty White's Teeth!"
Would the PGA tour be okay with a player openly cracking beers on the fairway?
It's against the rules. Which means that you are now free to start a rival tour that permits alcohol on the course, places alligators in the water hazards, and features strategically placed landmines along the fairway. THE XGA WILL CONQUER ALL.
Why do we live in a world where there are still phillips head and flat head screws? Shouldn't one (well, really, the phillips) have won out by now?
Because then the people at BIG SCREWDRIVER wouldn't be able to fuck you into buying two sets of screwdrivers. I look forward to them inventing a THIRD kind of screwdriver (the Z-Head!) in 2015.
I don't know why the Phillips head hasn't won out yet. The plus sign slot allows for maximum torque and less slippage. Take it from someone who has clumsily let the screwdriver slip and nearly impaled his own hand with it on at least two dozen occasions.
It's a law of home repair that you could have a thousand screwdrivers in your possession and still manage to not have the one required for the job. I have a zillion kiddie toys that have screwdriver lids for the batteries (is that REALLY necessary?), and these lids always require a screwdriver that is smaller than the usual regular screwdriver but larger, or course, than the average miniature screwdriver. These are tweener screws, the Lamar Odom of screws. And they SUCK.
I also buy very cheap toys made in China, which means that the screws they use turn to fucking DUST the second you attempt to remove them. I can't tell you how deflating it is to see that happen, to know that you just made it impossible to ever open up that battery lid again. I fucking hate you, remote controlled frog car. YOU GO TO HELL.
Have you ever run from the cops in your car when you knew they were after you? I have done it several times now and although I know it's wiser to stop and take the rap, it is fucking thrilling.
I'm sure it is, but I wouldn't advise doing that regularly. You should only run away from security guards because A) It's less risky and B) Rent-a-cops are fat and can't catch you.
Most people get their "running away from rent-a-cops" phase out of their system by the end of high school or college. I went to a dipshit prep school and—because a prep school is the kind of place where latent homosexuality is ALWAYS lingering just under the surface of everything—the guys in my dorm had a fondness for streaking the campus late at night. We called this "ho'ing". So late one night, we're all down in the common room, naked and giggling (but giggling in a totally manly way bro!). We bust out of the door and start running naked around the quad, screaming and grabbing our balls and shit. And girls are making joke catcalls at us from their dorm windows, which I found THRILLING (they might like me!).
Anyway, I'm a fatty at 280 lbs. and I'm falling WAY behind the rest of the pack. And suddenly, I feel lights go on behind me and there's a security van tailing five feet behind me, with its headlights splashed across my fat ass. I get back to the dorm, gasping for oxygen, and look frantically for a place to hide. But I can't find anywhere good to hide quickly. So—and this is absolutely true—I stand up straight in a garbage can over in the corner of the common room. You know how sometimes, in the movies, a guy will fail to find a good hiding spot and put a lampshade on his head? This was just like that, only I was naked and standing inside a garbage can.
So I'm standing there, with my heart pounding and sweat POURING down my balls. This is literally the most exciting thing that has happened in my life up to this point, which is unbearably sad. I'm praying this "stand in a garbage can and blend in" strategy works when I see a security guard waltz into the common room with a flashlight. He notices me RIGHT AWAY.
GUARD (thick New Hampshire accent): What ahhhh you' doin?
ME: I dunno.
GUARD: Heh. DAT WAS SMAHHHHT.
And he leaves without writing me up. So there you go. If you're fat and naked, townie rent-a-cops are more inclined to give you a break.
Would you rather eat a jar of mayonnaise or a live cockroach (a big one, like those beasts they make the clowns on Fear Factor eat)?
I say cockroach, one bite and done.
I hate mayonnaise and cockroaches more than anything else in the world, and so I suppose the one bite of cockroach is the lesser of two evils, but I know what would happen. I would pick the cockroach, and then I would be presented with a giant hissing roach on a plate, with its fucking antennae wiggling around. And I would look into its soulless black eyes and immediately recant my choice. And then I'd spend the rest of the day throwing up globs of horrible, slimy white mayonnaise. OH GOD SO AWFUL. Whoever invented mayo and cockroaches should burn. Looking at you, GOD.
If you have Alzheimer's, is it possible to get addicted to drugs? You can't remember what you did yesterday so is it possible that you would ever have the psychological cravings for a drug?
I'm no doctor. I'm just a man who hides naked in garbage cans, so please do not consider my opinion valid in the slightest, but I would imagine that it depends on whether or not the portion of your brain crippled by Alzheimer's is also the one that triggers the dopamine release that's part of the physiology of addiction.
People can be psychologically addicted to something (that is, they're trained behaviorally to need tarantula insertion porn), and they can by physically addicted to something (that is, overconsumption has altered their bodies to require tarantula insertion porn in order to properly function). So I imagine that an Alzheimer's patient could, in fact, still be addicted to heroin if there were certain undamaged parts of his body that cried out for it. He would probably go through the horrific symptoms of withdrawal without understanding why. And then he'd try to inject Five Alive into his wrist.
So don't go thinking that getting Alzheimer's is some magical way of doing heroin without getting hooked. We'd ALL like to try heroin in some kind of consequence-free manner, but this is not the way to go about it. Besides, you wouldn't even remember your thousand-orgasm high anyway.
The other night I was playing quarters with some friends and my friend Gavin swallowed a quarter. Obviously this isn't a huge deal and he successfully pooped it out the next day. But it got me thinking— if he were to rinse off that quarter and swallow it again and again and again, how many times would it make it through his digestive tract and still be recognizable as a quarter?
Tell your friend to NOT swallow quarters again and again because if you swallow one and it get trapped in your digestive tract (possible), it can block the tract entirely and kill you if it remains there undetected (or can require highly invasive belly surgery to remove). I know this because my nephew swallowed a nickel and had to get a series of x-rays to make sure it was passing through. My sister had to check his stool regularly for TWO WEEKS before that fucking thing finally emerged. That's right: two full weeks of sifting through piles of feces. Think about how many times that would make you vomit into a garbage can.
Anyway, when my nephew finally passed the nickel, it came out BLACK. I'm sure the acids in his stomach reacted with the zinc in the coin somehow (come back, zinc!), so a few more passages would probably erode the metal further. But again: DO NOT ATTEMPT. It's not worth it. It's a far better idea to experiment with your stool in other ways: Play Doh, food coloring, etc.
When I was in college I worked with a kid on the graveyard shift at a hospital. The guy seemed totally normal. One night, after about a year, he tells me out of the blue that when he was a kid (8 or 9) he and his dad were deer hunting and he accidentally shot another hunter. He said he fired, missed the deer, and the bullet ended up hitting some guy they didn't know was out there.
Then the story got weird.
He said when he and his dad found the guy he was already dead (head shot). He said his Dad told him there was nothing they could do and to get back to the car. They left the guy there, didn't call the cops, tell his mom, or anyone else.
He said a few days later there was an article in the paper with the guy's picture and the whole thing was reported as an accident where the shooter must not have known what he did. A few years after the incident his Dad died and according to him, "I was now the only other person alive who knew."
We worked together for another year and then he left for a different job. So my questions are:
1. Why the fuck did he tell me?
2. Was he crazy? He seemed normal, but who the hell knows.
3. What do you think the most common "secret crimes" are of acquaintances who otherwise seem normal? I'm talking the biggies (murder, rape, major theft, etc.). I vote rape, I bet there are a lot of secret rapists out there.
I have a hard time believing your co-worker wasn't messing with you. What the fuck kind of person shoots another man by accident and then RUNS? That's insane. You have to call 911 when that happens. You can't just be like, "Welp, nothing to be done here. Let's go get a hot dog."
And the indifference from local authorities seems dubious as well. When authorities come across a body in a forest with a fatal gunshot wound, they're usually not like, "Well this was clearly an accident. ANYONE GOT EXTRA COFFEE?!" I know cops are lazy, but holy shit, that's the laziest thing ever.
And wouldn't the dead guy's family ask around? No one traumatized by the death of a loved one just takes that facile explanation at face value. If my dad was shot to death and left in the forest, I would suspect EVERYONE: neighbors, friends, family members, the Freemasons, OBAMA, everyone. Maybe it wasn't an accident. Maybe the dad orchestrated it so that it the kid shot the man banging his wife! DIABOLICAL. I demand answers.
I say all this knowing that small towns in this country are fucked up, and that your local Bumblefuck, AL sheriff occasionally looks the other way anytime ol' Earl down the street loses a finger in the weekly poker game. Many crimes are left out of the US judicial system entirely thanks to coercion, indifference, or even matters of etiquette. At times, people only involve the legal system at their discretion. Grandma died suddenly at the nursing home? Well, it's nice to not have to pay her bills for a change! That does happen, but a shooting death seems like it would force SOMEONE'S hand. I'd like to think that. Who the hell knows.
Anyway, I would have to agree with Mike that there is almost certainly a large number of secret rapists out there. You might even know one, which is an awful thought. We live in a world where, outside of murder, the most horrific crimes (rape, youth sexual assault) are also the least likely to be reported. It shouldn't be that way. The least reported criminal complaint should be, "Hey, someone stole my Google Glass!" But it isn't.
Do hookers charge you extra if you want to film it?
I can't find any hard information on it, even though I spent three whole minutes Googling it. Seems like a thorny issue in 21st century prostitution. Let's assume that you are a classy john and you did NOT set up a camera behind your closet door so that it can tape you doing your business right through those little closet door slits. Let's assume you feel compelled, out of courtesy, to ask. And why wouldn't you? Seems like a great way to get added value out of the arrangement. And you can show your bros! LOOK AT ME CRUSH THIS HOOKER BRO! HIGH FIVAGE!
I would imagine that many hookers and escort services would discourage taping your session altogether because A) They assume you would immediately post it to the Internet, B) They don't want to dilute the value of their product, C) They want you to live in the moment! and D) Gross. But these are often one-on-one negotiations between two consenting adults. Maybe your hooker is really, really, really high and doesn't give a shit. Or maybe she's willing to charge a small supplemental fee for it, the same as charging for different orifices or extra candle wax. You really aren't gonna know until you get into the negotiation phase. I bet a good agent like Scott Boras could get a videotaping waiver thrown in for nothing, with a signed talent release and everything. Maybe you could get your hooker a SAG card out of it! Now everyone wins!
But seriously, I can't even imagine the death stares you would get from asking that question.
I was at a Rangers-Devils game in New Jersey a couple years ago, waiting in the painfully long line to piss. While next in line, two guys at the urinals in front of me in opposing jerseys were talking serious smack at each other when the guy in the Rangers jersey turned and pissed on the Devils fan.
The Devils fan, dick still hanging from his pants, hit the guy with left that knocked him out cold and was about to kick him before realizing he may have killed the guy. I have numerous questions in this situation.
1. Am I obligated, as a Rangers fan, to come to the aid of my fellow downed fan, even though he was clearly in the wrong?
And, more importantly,
2. What is the dick-to-punch requirement in this situation? Do you have to put it away first, or was immediate reaction necessary?
Side note: the guy in the Rangers jersey awoke and was promptly arrested while the Devils fan was allowed to walk away. Piss-soaked, but free.
There's no time to think in that situation. A dipshit Rangers fan just pissed on you. You're going to react IMMEDIATELY, dick out or not. No one's gonna blame you for terminating with extreme prejudice as quickly as you can.
And no, you are not obligated to help your fellow Rangers fan. Once something like that happens, team allegiances become irrelevant. Here is one man committing a DISGUSTING ACT upon another man. That shit ain't right, no matter how douchey that Jersey fan may be (and I can well imagine).
That Rangers fan deserved to get the shit beaten out of him, not just for pissing on a guy, but for confirming all of your worst fears about a stadium bathroom as well. We all know how tense it is in there. You have to piss in a trough with a bunch of other assholes, many of them loud and horrible. And there's ALWAYS the fear that one of those drunk assholes will start a fight, or push you into the trough, or drunkenly bump into you (DON'T FUCKING TOUCH ME!), or make fun of your dick size in front of everyone or, yes, piss on you. It's a really stressful environment already, so for this fuck to dial up the stress further, I say GAS HIM.
How does someone stay calm when finding a tick on your body? I thought I had a scab on my neck, picked it at for a bit, then the scab sprouted legs and attached to my hand. I was fucking terrified. I waved my arm at a speed that not even a fucking piranha would have stayed on, shut the bathroom door and immediately dropped my pants to make sure there wasn't a swarm around my balls. Thankfully, everyone's asleep but I'm sure of the living room was full of people, I still would have went through the same process. And now I need to go find a blowtorch.
Ever pick one off a dog? It's fucking revolting. It's like a living wart.
Ticks are horrible because they carry Lyme Disease, of course. They also happen to be indestructible, and finding one means that you only have a set amount of time before it burrows down under your skin and LIVES INSIDE YOU, which is everyone's worst nightmare. Ever pull on one and your skin comes with it? Oh man, that is something. That's why you reacted like a such a pansy (as would I). It's the classic GET IT OFF! GET IT OFF! spazz-out that you learn at age seven and slowly perfect over the years.
I forget about ticks for long stretches. Then I'll take a walk in the woods with my kid or something and I'll feel an itch and I'll think OH FUCK THAT MIGHT BE A TICK. Then I do a tick check on my legs and search for telltale bullseye rashes. What if it's already under my skin and I can't see it? What if it's hatching eggs? What if those eggs reach my balls? Is that possible? Ticks are cunts.
Which was more awesome as a kid - putting Bugles on all of your fingertips or using a Twizzler as a straw?
What about wrapping a Fruit Roll Up around your finger and then sucking on it? NOTHING PHALLIC ABOUT DOING THAT.
Anyway, the Twizzler straw was more fun. And I say that knowing that putting Bugles and/or raspberries on each fingertip provides its own special kind of thrill.
In the hierarchy of hotel room objects that are permissible to splooge on, the most acceptable has to be the small washcloths (often washed, with bleach, not often used), moving down through the larger towels, bathroom sink, floor, desk chair, etc. But what's the worst? I'm going with TV remote - probably never cleaned and everyone uses it. I was considering the phone, but we all have cell phones so nobody picks that up.
You still use that phone to call for room service or to ask to have your jizzy towels cleaned, so leaving your DNA on that is NOT COOL, mister! Anyway, assuming you're a barbarian who doesn't use toilet paper, the hierarchy goes:
- Shower drain
- Sink drain
- Medium towel
- Big towel (joke's on you when you dry yourself off with it later on before remembering what you did)
- Bathroom floor
- Maid (even a devious one!)
Email of the week!
Last week I was driving back from a weekend mountain trip with a few of my friends. We all agreed that we were going to eat at one of our favorite local restaurants on the way out of town. I started to suggest that we go somewhere else, as the church crowd was slowly trickling in and well-dressed little kids were running around the hostess podium pretending to be power rangers or whatever crazy shit kids want to be nowadays. We finally get seated and I order my sweet tea. Before I even get my beverage, I release a small fart which is followed by a creature from deep inside my bowels. I quickly waddle to the nearest bathroom.
This bathroom is the typical small restaurant/gas station bathroom. Only one toilet and a urinal, for only one person to #2 and #1 respectively. I finally get my pants down and this is one of those shits that releases before you sit down on the toilet and smells like sour decay. I am already feeling a little better, but I guess the fear of soiling my pants had made me forget to lock the bathroom. One of the little well-dressed-power-ranger-chubby kids decides that he too must use the bathroom. Initially, I tell him that the bathroom is occupied. He hesitates until he sees the free urinal no more than 4 feet to my right. Completely ignoring my suggestion that the bathroom is occupied (maybe he thinks just the toilet is occupied??), he struts over to the urinal, drops EVERYTHING, looks at me and says "this bathroom is really small" and starts peeing. My initial thought is panic. ANYONE who were to walk in or even crack the door would think something Sandusky-esque or worse. I immediately pull my pants up, no flushing, no wiping (not a clean break either), and get the hell out of the bathroom to return to my friends at the table with a dirty ass and feeling worse than I did pre-shit.
Drew Magary writes for Deadspin and Gawker. He's also a correspondent for GQ. Follow him on Twitter @drewmagary and email him at email@example.com. You can also buy Drew's book, Someone Could Get Hurt, through his homepage.