How much better would the world be if all the comment sections on the internet were turned off?
It would be terrible. Let me confess something that you already probably suspected: I LOVE bad internet comments. I can’t get enough of them. When I’ve had a rough day, nothing soothes my nerves like whipping out my phone and scrolling through a few “Obummer”comments at the bottom of any news post. Half the time, I don’t even read the article. I just go straight to the comments from people who ALSO clearly didn’t read the article, but are mad about the article anyway. Then I marvel as one bad comment gives birth to a family tree of hilarious, futile, comment-section infighting. I don’t want some boring, nuanced comment with coherent arguments and infallible data points. I want the exact opposite. I bitch and moan about hot takes while secretly relishing them all. I’m part of the problem.
Or am I? Let me explain why shitty internet comments are good for humanity. I should preface this by saying I’m way biased, because I am the perpetrator of horrific, abominable internet comments myself; okay, now that that’s conveniently out of the way, here is why you should embrace the Dark Side:
1. Bad comments make you aware of the world’s idiocy. Back before the internet, I had no way to measure the depth and breadth of mankind’s collective hatred and ignorance. But now I know everything. I can see into the very psyche of the Politico comment section. And while that terrifies me (as it should terrify you), knowledge is power. I sleep with a golf club under my bed now, just in case they come for me. I need to be ready and alert. This world is so much more fucked up than I ever would have suspected. We gotta fix it! Also, thanks to Facebook, I now know which subjects will prove nuclear at the family reunion. Imagine going in cold and bringing up gay rights to Grandpa Wilbur by accident. HOO BOY ARE YOU IN FOR A RIDE.
2. They boost your confidence. It’s a competitive world out there, man. People are killing each other for college admission slots and mid-level jobs and cake competition trophies. So isn’t it nice to click on a comment section every so often and be reminded that 90 percent of the human population is complete and utter sewage? They can’t even fucking spell. Suddenly, the world doesn’t seem quite so competitive, does it? That stack of resumes you’re up against could be filled with any number of trolls, yahoos, goobers, and dipshits. That should make you feel good!
3. Catharsis. Worldwide crime rates are down (NOTE: statistic not researched!), and that’s because otherwise insane people are able to let off some steam posting lousy Facebook memes instead of going out into the world and doing real harm. Bad comments act as a pacifier—a soothing agent for any guy with the KEEP TAILGATIN’ I’M RELOADING bumper sticker. He’s not REALLY reloading. He’s too busy commenting at The Blaze while driving, and that’s much safer for us all. I’ve written a lot of angry takes in my day—against football players, umbrellas, politicians, scarves, entire states, you name it. And some people are like, “Wow, you must be really angry.” And I’m not! I’m the happiest asshole on Earth, because I’ve worked out all my feelings about why Peyton Manning can eat shit. I am CLEANSED. Good for me!
4. They’re entertaining. A bad comment engages you and makes you dream up all kinds of super-sweet counterattacks (love those“Salty” memes, everyone!). It captures your attention and interest in a way that cogent, rational takes can’t. Who wants to sit there and nod in approval when you can shake your fist at the screen and be like, “But … how… why … HOW COULD ANYONE ACTUALLY SAY THAT?!” Clickbait? Hardly. No one forced me to click. I just wanted to spend some time at the Argument Clinic.
So don’t be one of those high-and-mighty people who lament the end of polite online discourse. Your disdain for free, idiotic expression belongs to a stuffy, repressed, Victorian age. Read the comments. Get into beefs. Take it to Temecula, guy! Otherwise you’re the worst. Literally. You’re worse than the Zika virus, and I can prove it. Try to argue otherwise.
Is there anything more infuriating than accidentally putting your shirt on backwards? I would much rather be executed than take it off and put it on the right way.
I agree 100 percent. For a man of my age, I should never fuck up putting on a shirt. And yet I do this WEEKLY, at least. I wake up. It’s dark. I gotta put on a shirt without the light on, because the light will crush my eyes. So I search for the tag in the dark and fail. Then I take a gamble and put the shirt on. And I guess wrong EVERY time. Statistically, you’d think I would stumble on the right way at least once in a while. But I don’t, because God is a troll who lives to see me embarrassed on a daily basis. It’s not right. I’m gonna have to go back to school and take a Putting On A Shirt class.
By the way, one of the small joys of having children is watching them struggle, on a daily basis, with shirts. They’ll put them on inside-out, upside-down, with their head through an arm hole … any which way but the correct one. Asking a child to put on a shirt is like asking me to put together an Ikea dinette set. They are baffled and infuriated. And if you ask to help, they cry out, NO! NO I CAN DO IT MYSELF! Except they totally can’t. It’s an eternal wellspring of physical comedy.
A few weeks ago, James Jones wore a hoodie during an NFL game, and it was deemed legal. What happens if a pass lands inside the hoodie? What happens if Jones goes up for the ball and the ball gets tipped around and lands on top of the hoodie without contacting the ground below? Is the ball still live in these situations? What’s to stop the Patriots from making oversized hoodies and exploiting this loophole in 2016?
First of all, I think it would be a legal (and awesome) catch if Jones ever caught a pass using his hood as a basket to retrieve the ball. It would be like if a ball got stuck in your helmet, or if it ended up between your butt cheeks as it rolled to the ground … just one of those freakish plays that ends up on a highlight reel due to its rarity. You’re not gonna TRY to catch the ball with your tiny, backward-facing hood on every play. There’s no competitive advantage to that.
Where the Ginger Hammer would step in is if guys on the Patriots (as Danish points out, always assume it’s the Patriots looking for innovative cheating methods) enlarged the hoods and started wearing them backwards to act as a dropbox for all incoming passes. That’s a legitimate advantage, and then people would be outraged, and then the NFL would clumsily institute some vague rule about what is a hood and what isn’t. I bet the competition committee would have a fevered all-nighter on the subject of drawstrings.
I recently discovered that two of my friends (both single mid/late-twenties guys) don’t sleep with sheets on their beds. Just blankets. I don’t know the exact layout, and I assume there must be a bottom fitted sheet over the mattress, but really at this point it seems like a bad idea to assume anything about these people I thought I knew. A sheetless bed is completely insane, right?
Well, wait: What KIND of blankets? Are we talking about full comforters? Because I’m in favor of sleeping under just a comforter, without the sheet getting in the way. I am a man, which means I sleep like I’m fighting people. Sheets do nothing for me. If I’m under two layers, those two layers are separating within five minutes of putting my head on the pillow. I got a REAL problem with hotel-room sheets. They’re beyond worthless. So if you’re sleeping under a fluffy duvet or whatever, I’m with you.
Also, what about napping? When you nap on a couch, you’re usually under a blanket. No one brings a sheet to a couch nap. Why does the sheet become mandatory during the night? I say that’s a double standard. PROBLEMATIC. Unless you’re sleeping under some raw, itchy Army blanket like a crazy person, I say DOWN WITH BIG SHEET. We should find other uses for them. Except wearing them. Always a bad idea to wear a sheet.
Do you think America would ever elect a male president with a ponytail?
No. Ponytails are for hippies. Would YOU want a hippie President? I’m as liberal as the next media dipshit, but I ain’t voting for no hippie. Give me a clean-cut fella who only makes vague liberal promises and then does nothing of consequence whatsoever. That’s the guy for me. I mean, look at Bernie Sanders’s hair. Does he even wash it? If his hair is that crazy, what about his IDEAS? Hmm?
Political advisers already know that most Americans are far more close-minded than they care to admit, so that’s why virtually every politician is out there rocking a tight, shellacked hairdo. You look at Newt Gingrich’s hair or Donald Trump’s hair and you’re like, “Who the fuck thinks that hair looks good?” But these guys care less about looking good than they do looking polished and controlled. They have TAMED their hair, which means they will next tame ISIS. That hair stays on message.
Last weekend, a buddy and I decided to nurse our hangovers by drowning ourselves with mimosas and the greasiest food we could stomach. As soon as the food arrived, my friend took a bite, then drunkenly proclaimed (basically to the entire restaurant) the biscuits and gravy to be so good that if it weren’t for his unbearable hunger, he would have sex with the dish right there on the table. At the time, this statement made perfect sense to the both of us (they were delicious), and it lead to an hour-long discussion on what food would actually be the best to have sex with. He eventually settled on pizza for its “folding benefits,” and because he is a goddamn disgusting monster. I on the other hand still claim that the end-all-be-all of culinary coitus is a custard-filled doughnut.
As someone who has stuck his penis into a piece of food (not proud of it), I would advise against copulating with ANY food product. It may have looked cool and fun in 9½ Weeks, but the reality of it couldn’t be more bleak, especially if you’re having sex with food by yourself. It’s messy, and sticky, and the food is NEVER the right temperature. Go fuck a pie if you don’t believe me. You’re not gonna get the sensation you’re looking for. Either the filling will be too cold (even if the pie is room temp), or you’ll burn your dick off. It’s a real problem, and it’s not worth the cleanup. If you use lotion, you’re squirting out a pump or two and then wiping off in a jif. But fuck a cake and it becomes a whole THING. No, thanks!
For the sake of this article, I Googled “edible fake vagina”and was discouraged by the results, to say the least. Without the existence of any novelty foodstuffs custom-made for sex, your best bet is to probably find a firm piece of raw meat (boneless, otherwise uh oh …), let it sit out for a while, cut a hole in it, squirt a bunch of KY warming lotion into the hole, and get down to business. Now, does that sound like fun to you? No, that sounds like the act of a serial killer. If you’ve got a food fetish, I suggest you indulge that fetish from afar. Let some porno actor get sprayed with erotic beet juice instead.
If it came down to it, would you rather vote for George W. Bush—with full knowledge of how many colossally bad decisions he already made as president—or Donald Trump?
Bush. As much as people hate Bush, his presidency did not end with a full-scale nuclear holocaust, which would very much be a possibility under Donald Trump. The devil you know …
I am currently cooking up a big pot of split pea and ham soup, and can’t seem to find the second bay leaf. Should I go after this soup with a strainer, knowing that in all likelihood, the pickiest eaters will find it and freak out? Or just wait for it to show up and hope no one eats it?
Leave it. They usually turn up after awhile, and any rational person will simply pick it out and leave it on a side plate while you apologize profusely. If you’re dumb enough to swallow a whole bay leaf, you deserve to choke to death. HEAD ON A SWIVEL.
You could also warn them. If you sit down to dinner with people and you’re like, “There may be a few bones in the fish,” you are now legally exempt from people suing you if they find a bone and the bone attacks them. That’s real law. By sitting at my table, you agree to my terms and conditions. I am indemnified. Now eat your eyeball stew.
People who drive around in convertibles with the top down and the windows rolled up look stupid, right? I guess some might argue that they don’t want their hair messed up, but when I see these people drive around like that with the windows up, it just looks like they don’t even know how to drive a sports car correctly.
I get that take, and I agree that a convertible looks dopey with the roof down and the windows rolled up. HOWEVER, sometimes you wanna hear the radio, man. You can’t hear that shit with the wind blowing at you at 80 mph. You need to shelter the rock ’n’ roll, like cupping your hands around a flame.
Also, there is no optimal, continuous open-window situation for long drives, roof or not. I am a serial window fiddler. Sometimes I put the window all the way down and rest my arm on the door like a BAWSE. But then it gets too cold, so I roll it back up. And then it gets too hot, so then I open it just a crack. And then the kids complain, so I roll it back up. And then my wife is like, “Let’s do windows and save gas money!” And then the windows go down again. And then we drive into New Jersey and it smells like tar, and we have to seal them again. And then we realize sealing in the Jersey smell was a HUGE mistake that could poison us all, so back down they go. If you ever ride with me in a car, you’d want to punch me into oblivion. All I want is to open a window and get consistent outside airflow that is entirely unaffected by varying speeds. I don’t think this is much to ask.
What do you write as a message in those horribly obligatory office birthday cards? Do you have a standard, beyond “happy birthday”?
Nope. The preferred salutation on any Deadspin staff card is EAT SHIT, but we’re all very close like that. In a standard office setting, you either just sign your name, or you tack on the obligatory HAPPY BIRTHDAY (even though the card already says that) or GET WELL SOON! if your co-worker is dying of lupus.
I’ll be honest: I don’t know what to put on ANY greeting card, much less an office birthday card. Like if I buy my mom a birthday card, I literally write HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MOM! (Or MA if I feel like mixing it up), tack on an I LOVE YOU, and then get the hell out of there. What else do I say? It’s my mom. I talk to her every week. About the only thing I can add is, “Hope you have a great day!” If I start off on some endless update of my personal affairs, I end up lost and unsure of what to write next. Or I run out of card space. Or I skip a word by accident and then have it put a caret into the text to correct it. And then the whole thing turns into a goddamn car wreck. We should ban all cards, is what I’m saying.
My wife commonly makes eggs for her and our son for breakfast. She asks if I want any, and I say no thanks, because she doesn’t know how to make eggs (scrambles IN the pan). So, I wait until she’s done, and put the dirty pan in the sink, and say, “Hmm, I think I changed my mind, I’ll make myself some eggs.” So, I wash the pan, and properly make eggs. Am I required to then re-wash the pan, because I was the last to use it? Or since I washed it once, does that count for my eggs, and she has to wash it for the eggs she made?
Whoever uses the pan last has gotta wash it. You didn’t need to wash it the first time. Just wipe it down with a paper towel and then make your eggs (but do NOT have sex with them).
But I feel like your issues go such much deeper than the simple washing of a pan, you know? I think you gotta have a sit-down with your old lady so that you don’t feel like you have to weave a TAPESTRY OF LIES to avoid telling her that you don’t like the way she cooks eggs. First you lie about eggs, and then you lie about escaping to the toilet to peruse Twitter, and then you lie about your affair with her hairdresser. COLLEEN, HOW COULD YOU?! It’s a slippery slope. Just sit down with her and be like, “Listen, I know you like scrambling them in the pan. But I like to scramble my eggs in a bowl first, SO THAT THEY TASTE LIKE SOMETHING!” It’ll go over fine.
I am currently eating a chicken pot pie, which is The Perfect Food. Unfortunately, this particular chicken pot pie came from a local farmer’s market and has some bullshit puff pastry just laid on top instead of the normal pie crust that should lovingly envelop the whole thing. I’ve seen this blasphemous substitution on menus at other restaurants before, and it always put me off of ordering them, because seriously, why would you fuck with something that works?
But puff pastry is delicious! It’s a series of very thin sheets of dough, each one lovingly brushed with melted butter and then baked until flaky and crispy. I MUST HAVE IT.
Normal pie crust, to me, is overrated. Not only is it a bitch to handle, but it’s horrible for you, and it doesn’t add all that much flavor or texture to the dish. If I’m eating a big wad of flour and Crisco, it better goddamn be worth it. And some wet-ass pie crust on the bottom of a chicken pie ain’t gonna cut it. All dessert pies should have a cookie or graham cracker crust. And all savory pies should have, like, a Dorito crust or something. I would not let kitty have my Dorito pie.
I was recently shopping at a store and wanted to buy a hat for $29. Their credit card machine was down, and I only had $21 cash on me, so I offered that, and they happily accepted. The next day I joined a new overpriced gym, low-balled them, and again they happily accepted. Now I wonder if the barter system is still accepted everywhere and I just didn’t know it. Please clear this up for me.
I think you got on a lucky barter streak. Normally, if you ask for a deal on some fixed-price item, you’re trying to bargain with a 17-year-old temp who is at the very bottom of the store org chart. He has no pull at all. I could ask that guy where the bathroom is and he’d need to submit eight different forms to get permission to give me directions. I tried to get some money off a plane ticket ages ago, and when I straight-up asked if the dude could cut me a deal, he looked at me like I was a fucking cyclops. I felt so small and worthless. I’ll never ask for a bargain again, it was so awkward.
Bartering is situational. If you go to the hat store and it’s owned and operated by just one dude, that guy has the authority to knock eight bucks off of your hat. But if it’s the Mega Hat Sales Emporium, that won’t be the case. And with a gym, all they want is to hook you in so they get your money every month. So if you’re stuck in some asshole manager’s office and he wants you to sign your name in blood on the gym contract, you have SOME bargaining power there, so long as you’re willing to walk away from the table if they say no. I was on the phone with some home security joint awhile back, and they were like, “Well, we have to raise your monthly bill to $X.” And I was like, “You know what? Just cancel it.” And then the dude was like, “HOLD ON A MOMENT.” A minute later, he knocked that shit down. I felt like Trump. It’s all about who you’re talking to.
Let’s say an NFL player (random example, I don’t know, say Alex Smith) decides that it would be hilarious to loudly scream, “Ahh, my cock!!” after every play. Even on plays where he doesn’t get touched by anyone, he would act like he got an old-fashioned cock tug and shriek, “Oh shit, my cock!!”. Everyone, including fans and viewers at home, can hear it clearly. How many times could he pull this off before he gets flagged, and how would the Ginger Ham react?
It would go viral after the first game, and then Goodell would fine Alex Smith a zillion dollars, and then his teammates would start to get aggravated by all the cock questions during the week, and then Alex would never scream out COCK on the field again. This is how the First Amendment dies, people.
Email of the week!
One time when I was about 13, my mom made me go to Christmas Eve church even though I felt really sick. She thought I was lying, and I don’t blame her; chances are I was. But unfortunately, I wasn’t.
Fast-forward to church, where I end up having to make a mad dash down the aisle to head to the bathroom, only I don’t even come close to making it. Shit starts dribbling down my legs and out of the pair of cuffed corduroy pants I’m wearing. By the time I hit the double doors, shit is plopping out of my pants and onto the red carpet of St. James Episcopal Church in Baton Rouge, La.
People notice as I shuffle past, trying to clinch my cheeks while the shit escapes. Once I’m in the hall headed to the bathroom, the quick walk turns into a dead sprint. I’ve now totally lost sphincter control and shit is flying everywhere. The men’s bathroom has two poop stalls, both occupied. I debate using the urinal, then realize the further humiliation that would cause if I’m caught shitting in a urinal by anyone that walks in.
So, I head for the women’s in desperation and proceed to absolutely destroy it. It was like a turn-and-burn; the pants came down as I swung my ass around, spraying what I had left in me all over the stall walls and the toilet. I didn’t mean to miss, it just happened that way. Worst part is, my family didn’t know how badly things had escalated. I had to retrace my steps, passing the shit plops in the hallway and in the main aisle, to get back to my mom. I rode home with my ass hovering above the seat. My mom had to give me a bath. I was too sick and too messy to even clean myself off. Did I mention I was 13? Thankfully, no pictures exist.
Also, I’ve got a little guilt complex about ruining some poor custodian’s Christmas Eve. The worst moment of my life and the worst of his life could be inextricably linked. I have not since returned to St. James Episcopal Church.
Lead Illustration by Jim Cooke.