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Birth, Peanut Butter, And Assorted Condiments

Illustration for article titled Birth, Peanut Butter, And Assorted Condiments
FunbagTime for your weekly edition of the Deadspin Funbag. Got something on your mind? Email the Funbag.

My kid has become obsessed with flashlights, which makes sense because I've NEVER stopped enjoying playing with flashlights. Seriously, flashlights are awesome. You can shine them directly in people's eyes. You can point them at the wall and shake them to make cool patterns. LOOK! A CIRCLE OF LIGHT! You can take them into the woods and pretend you're a detective looking for a corpse. I love flashlights in every way. I love taking them into the basement and pretending I'm going down into a city sewer, preparing to confront some grisly subterranean beast. Because you never know in the dark. Do you? One second, your flashlight is shining on the dryer. The next second, you're turning the corner and BOOM! Fucking vampire at 11 o'clock. With flashlights, life becomes one giant horror movie.

So, by all means, go out, get drunk and stoned, and play with flashlights, people. That's what they're for. Now, the letters.


I wanted to ask you about the act of child-birth, more specifically, the Dad's role during this momentous occasion. Is it no longer acceptable for the Dad to remain in the waiting room passing out cigars? And if you must be by her side, is it possible to avoid having to look at ‘ground zero'?


Men are expected to be in the delivery room (you want to be there, I assure you), and are expected to help with the pushing. That is to say, you will be expected to take your wife's leg (the nurse takes the other), bring her knee to her ear, and count to ten as she tries to squeeze the child out. This can last for hours, and it's fucking brutal on your back. Of course, you can't complain that your back hurts during this, because your wife will be attempting to push a human child out of her cervix. Fair enough.

Now, I went to childbirth class with the Mrs. on our first kid (no parent does this with the second kid, because once you have the kid you realize how pointless the class was). In this class, they forced us to watch videos of live births. It was horrifying. It was the worst porno I've ever seen. Apparently, they were all shot in 1986 on the lowest quality videotape humanly possible. Every woman they selected had Linda Hamilton's Terminator mullet. All of them were sweating. One was buck naked on the table. One was naked and squatting on the table, trying to poop the baby out. And many of the babies came out covered in a white, waxy substance called vernix that makes the child look like a creature from Ghoulies.

These movies were traumatizing to me, but they drove the point home that every man needs to know: Never look at ground zero. I covered this over at FKS, but it bears repeating: keep your eyes focused on your wife's face. You will be tempted to look down. Do not. It's like when they open the Ark of the Covenant in Raiders. You don't want to look right at it. Your head will melt. Also, by staring at your wife's face, you give HER something to look at, instead of staring down at her own business. Think childbirth is scary to watch? Imagine being the one in the stirrups.

You will be stunned by the amount of blood that comes out during birth. It's insane. I can only speak for my experience, but there was blood everywhere. EVERYWHERE. In the fucking corner of the room, yards away from my wife. On the fucking ceiling. And I was like, "How the fuck did blood get there?" Well, it did somehow. The room was painted with stuff. I spent hours and hours staring at my wife, only to turn around and see red all over. I nearly collapsed. Mothers are quite something.


One funny aside to this: My wife received an epidural for birth, and it was hospital policy that the husband remain seated during the injection, lest he pass out from watching it (which I was told had happened on occasion). Yet, during the actual birth, you can stand all you like. You can do jumping jacks, for all they care. Seems inconsistent. Because I nearly passed out, and I didn't even have to give birth to the thing.

Our second kid was born C-section. The erect a curtain at your wife's waist. I was not allowed to take a peek behind it. In some ways, this was worse, because my wife and I were sitting on one side of the curtain, and we knew EXACTLY what was going on. You could see the blood spattering the doctor's faces. You could hear, well, gushing sounds as he moved his hands around. I mean, holy fucking shit. You know the other side of that curtain is hosting a butchering. It's a horrible, horrible sensation. And again, that's just from the husband's perspective. I wasn't even the one being slit open. My wife passed out from blood loss and nausea. She was walking a day later. Again, women are quite the strong gender.


Of course, children are well worth all this. And frankly, it's worth going through the experience because HOLY FUCK THIS IS FUCKING LIFE AND DEATH. You feel like you're in the middle of an episode of ER, only the doctors NEVER FUCKING SHOW UP. Plus, you get to share your story with soon-to-be parents, and scare the ever-living fuck out of them. ENJOY!


Do you have an overwhelming desire to steal when using the self checkout at grocery stores?


Yup. I've been subject to checks they run to ensure that I am NOT stealing, where the clerk comes by and randomly scans a few things in the basket (because I use the self-scanner gun too).

I feel a certain amount of stealing at self-checkout is acceptable. Remember: you're saving the store money by cutting on employee wages and benefits by using self-checkout. That, to me, is worth a free bakery item. If I can't find the item on your fucking store's menu, then tough shit. It's mine. I'm either it taking it, or I'm scanning it as something cheaper. Jerusalem artichokes become red delicious apples with a simple push of a button. MWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA



Which do you prefer: The feeling you get when you go to unload the dishwasher so you can do the dishes, only to find the dishwasher is either (a) empty or (b) only partially filled with dirty dishes, thereby saving you some work, or the feeling you get when you go to switch your clothes into the dryer and discover the dryer is empty, so you only have to fold one load of clothes?


The dishwasher one. Because I am always ambushed with a clean dishwaher. ALWAYS. I'll be sitting there, cooking dinner, then I go to throw something in the dishwasher… BOOM! All clean! INSTANT FUCKING CHORE. God, I hate that. And it happens virtually any time I waltz into the kitchen. "Oh, honey. The dishwasher is done. Can you…" SHIT. So experiencing the opposite of that is downright orgasmic.

You know what I hate most about emptying the dishwasher? The shit that doesn't dry. The dishwasher will dry many things: plates, etc. But a fucking plastic bowl? No chance. Sopping wet when I pull it out. And sometime I get glasses that are still wet. The whole thing becomes a fucking drying party. KILL KILL KILL. Then there are items like coffee cups that have just enough of a depression in the bottom that they can accumulate a small tidal pool of water in them during the cycle. I fucking hate items like this. That shit spills all over the other dishes, and now I have to dry every goddamn thing. All cups and bowls should have flat bottoms. Always. Fucking gravy boat. You are DEAD TO ME.


Scott (cont'd):

I have 3 kids under 6. I feel more confident in the ability of our baby gates to keep out intruders than the deadbolt on our door. You could surround the Hope diamond with four baby gates and it would be safe. You ever watch a person without kids try and figure out how to open one of those gates? Even if you have kids, if the gate is a different brand than yours, it takes a good couple minutes of maneuvering and cursing before you finally just try to (always ungracefully) step over the thing.


The worst are pressure gates. People have these for dogs and kids. Instead of a mounted gate, which you screw into the wall and can swing open and closed, you have to push down pressure gates so they press against the wall. These are cheap, shitty gates, and I would fucking burn them all if I were allowed. They're impossible to remove. They're even harder to redo. They're just fucking ass. Then I try stepping over it, clip my foot on the top dislodge it, trip over it, and then go falling to my death. Got a kid? Got a dog? Have the courtesy to use a fucking mounted gate.


Is there any moment more embarrassing than when you're checking out at a retail store and your credit/debit card gets declined? I'm a college student that works at Uhaul part time and have experienced both sides of the awkwardness. When a customer's card gets declined it's impossible to tell them without making them feel like an ass. I'll try to run the card through again as if it will magically work the second time, knowing goddamn well it's going to get turned down again. On February 15th I was buying groceries and it happened to me. I got the fuck out of there as quickly as I could.


It's horrible because, when it happens, I'm always SHOCKED. I always looked shocked, and the clerk always looks at me like, "Don't act so shocked. You know and I know that you know you're fucking ass broke."

The worst part is then calling the company or checking the ATM to ensure that it was mistake, only to slowly realize no, it was no mistake. You are fucking dead broke, and this is exactly how you were able to pull off the feat.



I've become a hypochondriac since having kids. Kids barf, I know there's a 1-in-3 chance I'll be sick too, so now when they even have a stomachache, my body starts freaking out. Is this something that be overcome?


No. I never used to wash my hands, now I'm a complete Howie Mandel about it. Getting kid strength diseases – where you have the flu for like, two goddamn weeks – will scare you into doing it.

The worst thing about having sick kids or a sick wife/girlfriend is that the "no touching the food or glasses" of others policy is immediately implemented by your woman. 40% of my food and fluid intake comes from the plates and glasses of others. I can't live if I can't steal my wife's food or eat the shit my kids won't. I have to be reminded of this policy 90 times a day when my wife sick. UH UH UH! NO DRINKING FROM MY GLASS! AND NO SEX! Not fun.



We just had a debate in the office as to which fast food condiment was the best. McD's BBQ sauce garnered a fair bit of popularity, as did Taco Bell's fire sauce (all lesser tempered TB sauces are for completely worthless). My favorite: The roasted honey bbq sauce from Chik Fil A. I will hoard that stuff and put it on everything.


Don't forget Arby's sauce. I want to have a hot tub filled with Arby's sauce. And Baja Fresh black salsa. And my favorite sauce in the world: the hoisin sauce that comes with your moo shu chicken takeout. They give you one little dipshit cup of hoisin sauce. I need an oil tanker full of it. It's so fucking good. I want my blood transfused with hoisin sauce. And there's basic Heinz ketchup, which is the Zeus of fast food condiments. Ever get some odd, non-Heinz ketchup with your shit? Tastes like Heinz that was left out in the sun for eight months.

But yeah, when I was a kid, I used to ask Mickey D's for extra BBQ sauce (fuck you for giving me just one stupid container), and then pour it directly into my mouth. The secret ingredient is sodium.



Have you ever gone commando under suit pants? It's like wearing pajamas to work!

Oh, it's a delight. But BEWARE. It also makes you unreasonably horny. You're wearing a suit with no underwear. You get that soft cotton glancing against your cokanballz… Ecstasy. You'll bang the bathroom dryer, you get so horny. So keep that in mind if you're going to a 14-hour accounting conference in which the fire exits have been sealed off.



While you're eating some food that has cheese in it, do you find yourself eating around the rest of the meal in order to save the cheesiest part of the meal for the last bite? For example, a bagel with cheese on it. The bagel has that hole in the middle and I find myself eating around the entire bagel to assure myself a 80% cheese/20% bread last bite.


Yes, and this applies to more than just cheese. If I'm eating a sundae, I try and save the section with the most hot fudge for last. If I'm eating an omelet, I try and save the bite with most filling for last. If I'm eating a cinnamon roll, I try and save the part with the most frosting and cinnamon crap for last.

Ever get towards that last, flavor stuffed bite, only someone will come by RIGHT THEN and ask you for a bite, then take the bite you were saving? Grounds for murder. NO ONE DENIES THIS.


Charles C:

Drew, I love to pick dry skin off of my body. While doing this, its usually my feet and around the toes. I'll try to really get in there and pick off some big chunks of skin. Also, I usually do this while watching TV (I'm single and live alone). Is this normal?


Yes. The question is… do you eat it? Because I'll eat hand and arm skin. But toejam is where I draw the line.

When I was a kid, I was fascinated with the skin of my heel, because that's where skin is the thickest. I used to dig a pen into the back of my heel and rip away shreds of the heel skin, just to see how thick it was. And it was insanely thick. Like a wrestling mat. One time I put it in my mouth. Like leather. I didn't make the same mistake twice. That would have been, you know, gross and stuff.


If you have a stray piece of skin or nail hanging off your body, who can resist pulling it off? I mean, really. I knew a kid once who had a broken toenail and he just left the nail dangling there, still on his toe. Half ripped off. Who does this? Who has that willpower? I wanted to hold that fucker down and rip that fucking nail right off.


I got toward the end of a bag of ruffles and some French onion dip simultaneously and solved it with the obvious cereal bowl full of chip/dip eaten with a spoon. Is that wrong? I don't think it's wrong.


You must listen to your heart. Referee Mills Lane says, "I'll allow it."

Jason (cont'd):

Additionally, my wife is more than 100 lbs lighter than me. We've had many a meal where our portions are roughly the same size, and she feels guilty about eating the same as me. Should I feel guilty for not telling her I had eaten a bag of pretzels, some peanut butter on toast, and 7 thin mints between lunch and dinner?


No. Not at all. My wife never knew half my intake before I started my diet. I'd just keep getting fatter and fatter, and she'd be like, "Well, you eat right." Oh, but I didn't. Dear, when you weren't looking, I plowed through a bag of Goldfish and ate half the jar of apple butter. Discipline is not my strong suit.

My wife is also more than 100 lbs. lighter than me. I feel like that merits some kind of certificate. Kevin James could hand them out.



Is there anything so retardedly thrilling as opening a new jar of peanut butter and making the first knife-scoop into that perfectly smooth and flat surface? I purposely buy the smaller, more $/ounce jars just so I can do this more often.

It's just so smooth and soft and helpless to resist my blade... I'm like the BTK guy of Skippy...

Illustration for article titled Birth, Peanut Butter, And Assorted Condiments

It's like a perfectly still pool before you do a cannonball. There's always joy to be had in ruining things. It's like busting the hymen of the peanut butter. I'm the guy who goes to the art gallery and has to mentally restrain himself from punching a hole in one of the canvasses just for the sick thrill of it.


Opening a new jar of peanut butter is great because you get the pristine surface AND you get the sound of the vacuum seal coming undone. I love that sound, like when you open a jar of dry roasted peanuts. VOOP! It won't be long until you are in PeanutLand. Same with new containers of hummus (great because they're super flat) and tubs of ice cream.

All peanut butter jars should be designed as upside down trapezoids, with a really wide mouth. That gives you more surface to dig into, plus leaves more room for your hand as you dig deeper.



I'm current plowing through a king sized bag of Reese's Pieces and have noticed a suggestion printed on the back of the bag "Squish Reese's Pieces into a banana for a crazy change." As if to say, "Eat some fruit or YOU'LL DIE FATASS". The gall.


THE GALL! Who has Reese's Pieces just to have fruit? More important, how are you supposed to squish them into the banana? I guess you press them in, so they remain on the surface of the banana. But you could also push them in edge first, so it disappears right inside the banana. But then the banana would break. The whole suggestion is just shitty and pointless.


I'm a grown man and still often confuse my lefts and rights-especially when I'm under pressure.

Does this mean I am slightly mentally retarded?

It's embarrassing, isn't it? This happens sometimes when I drive.

ME: Which way is it?

WIFE: Left.

ME: Okay. (Begins turning right)

WIFE: Your other left.


Trent D:

After graduating college, an acquaintance and I moved into a decent little townhome.

Anyway, the scariest thing about moving to a new place is the bugs. No, I don't mean the "EEEEEK there's a tiny translucent spider on the baseboard!" bugs. I mean the freaking scary bugs, the ones that you hope never live in your house. Killer spiders, giant pointy bugs, things you never learned about in science class. Have you ever SEEN a picture of a brown recluse bite? Those things live IN SOMEBODY'S HOUSE. And freaky bugs never come out to play when you tour a new place. They're always hiding under the edge of the toilet seat or chilling inside the air ducts or something. Then a few days after your deposit gets cashed HERE COMES CRAZYLEGS!

Listen, I'm a red blooded male. I'm not afraid of spiders. I'm not afraid of flies, or other stupid normal bugs. But within the first week, one of these freaking things takes off across at approximately 700 miles per hour.


I have the freaky centipede fuckers in my basement. They're very hairy, and fast when moving, but they don't bite, and they're easy to kill when they're sitting still. The wife is terrified of them. I don't fear them anywhere near as much as I fear spiders, cave crickets, and cockroaches. I mean, holy shit, look at these photos of a brown recluse bite. (NSFLunch). If that was discovered in my house, I would burn the house down. And I would sue the FUCK out of the previous owner. Oh, you mentioned the mold in the basement. But you didn't tell me there were bugs here that rival those in the fucking Temple of Doom.

That's why I could never live in Australia again. I was born in Australia. We moved back to the US when I was four months old. My dad says he regularly found tarantulas in the garbage cans. My brother once went out in the woods and got bitten by something that, to this day, he did not see and was never identified. He had to be hospitalized for it. HORRIFYING. I'll never live anywhere where tarantulas are just, you know, hanging out casually. I can't do that.



What is the greatest food to reheat in a microwave? For my money nothing is better than chicken chow mein. I wouldn't kill for it but torture is not out of the question.


But is that chow mein, or LO mein? ARE YOU CALIFORNIAN?

Obviously, it can't be something crispy or crunchy, because microwaves destroy those items. And it can't be something with cheese on top, like pizza. Microwaved pizza is fucking terrible. The cheese turns translucent. Makes me nauseous. That leaves you with soups and stew and curries. Aw yeah, curry.



The back of the plane is ten million times better on a long ass international flight. Why? It is basically like the back of a domestic flight, BUT WITH NEVER ENDING FLOWS OF COGNAC. I recently discovered this on a Lufthansa flight from DC to Munich. One of those flights where we left at a time where we really weren't meant to sleep during the flight, so me and some friends got up to see what was up at the back of the plane. Chat up the stewardesses for a few minutes and BAM out comes the cognac. It is free and there is much of it. Amazing.


But you flew Lufthansa, regarded by many as one of the finest airlines out there. It's a whole other story on Delta, or some shitass American airline.

Sometimes, you luck out and get those flights that turn into spontaneous cocktail parties. This, of course, happens on most Vegas flights. But it's rare outside of that. Sometimes, you get those flights where there's a giant group of people traveling together, and they're all drinking and friendly. It's nice when it happens.



David H:

Did you ever have the chance to unleash all the pent up childhood energy and just go ape shit on something?

My father was known to collect all manner of junk and crap. And one day he brings home a safe. Maybe like 2 feet tall and a foot square. He quickly loses interest in it and tells me to do what I want with it. I'm like 10 at this point, so of course I'm gonna break into this thing!

Lacking any real tools, I take a ballpeen hammer, picked a spot dead center in the top of the thing, and just proceed to hammer. I'd hammer in the morning, I'd hammer in the evening. And after what must have been a weeks I had busted my way though that shit and opened a nice fist sized hole in the top of it.

You have no clue how proud of myself I was.

Now I want to buy a safe just to break into it. I've destroyed countless umbrellas. My friend also once was throwing out his old TV. But we realized that throwing it out was stupid when we could beat the fuck out of it first. So we took it outside and kicked and stomped the thing into oblivion. Then, for good measure, we threw it into the East River. That was a great day.


I'd like to go Walter Sobchak on a car sometime. Preferably a car that did me some sort of injustice. My car has cost me thousands in repairs. One day, rather than call the scrap yard, I will take a bat and abuse it like one of Sprewell's children. Women don't really understand the male urge to destroy things. It's a primal need, like the need for sex, food, water, or Arby's sauce.


Is there anything worse than cutting your fingernails too short, and the pain involved thereafter? I always try to get them nice and even, and remove all of the nail portion that is white beyond the translucent pair. Without fail I end up with fingers that pain me for the next day or so.


It's worse if you're a nail biter like me. Sometimes, I start to tear off a nail, only it tears deeper than I thought it would. Now the only choice is to leave the nail hanging (again, I am incapable of doing this), or tear it clean off and rip away the nail bed. Pain. Blood. Agony. And that's what I do. Then, without fail, I will bang my finger against a door or wall in that EXACT vulnerable spot. I should probably just do away with my fingers. They cause me nothing but agony.


Do you ever just flat out lie? Like, for no reason? I do it a lot, and have no idea why.

When my parents call me, I tell them I'm about to walk into the grocery, when I'm really at work. Or when my friend calls me and wakes my lazy ass up on a weekend morning at 11am, I say I've been up 2 hours. Then I have to lie more to tell when what I've been doing for 2 hours on a Sunday morning. Am I the only one who lies for absolutely NO reason?


I also lie when it's blatantly obvious that I'm lying. I'll put wet dishes away in the cabinet.

WIFE: Did you dry the dishes?

ME: Yes.

WIFE: (looks at dishes) No, you didn't.

ME: Yes, I did.

WIFE: Are you retarded? THE WATER IS VISIBLE.

ME: Uh… I dunno. There must be water in the cabinet.


Is it just me, or are Pringles the least filling thing ever? I could eat 6 full cans of pizza pringles in a sitting, easy. And if I'm drunk, get me to the nearest 7-11 and I will eat every last Pringle in that place.


All chips are like that, except Pringles stack together so tightly, you can pack more of them into individual bites, thus plowing through a can faster.

I've always thought I could eat, like, 5 cans of Pringles in a single sitting. But I've NEVER had the guts to do it. I've never had the balls to say, "You know? Fuck it. I will eat this one thing until failure." Because I don't know that my appetite has a failure point. I'm on this fucking diet, and I have to drink tea at the end of very meal to signal to my brain OKAY, YOU ARE NOW FINISHED EATING UNTIL THE NEXT MEAL. Otherwise, I'll just keep eating. All day. A meal will bleed into a snack. A snack will bleed into the next meal. Left to my own devices, I would NEVER stop eating. Ever. I love it so much.



I'm 26 college grad, gainfully employed working 40-50 hours a week in an office. One way I like to spend my free time (what little I have before getting married and having kids) is beating up 12 year olds via Xbox Live. My girlfriend obviously thinks I'm a loser for doing so, but I would tend to disagree, as I try to explain to her that a significant portion of men in my age bracket (if not older) grew up playing vids and still do to this day.

Am I wrong here?

No. Most videogames are now designed for grownups. More grownups play them than kids. Getting pissed at someone for liking video games is like being pissed at them for liking movies.


The only reason your chick is pissed is because video games take up more time than movies or TV, and she can't play it with you because she probably is very bad at playing them.


How would you rank the top places to study abroad in college? Barcelona seems like the popular choice, but I'm looking for something not so obvious.


Um, Australia? Have you considered Australia? You should go to Australia. Sure, I'm terrified of spiders that can fly and carry firearms, but that doesn't mean you are. Go. I've never heard of anyone who went abroad to Australia and came back saying, "God, that sucked. I wish I'd stayed in Cleveland." No one says that, because that would be insane. Everyone I've seen come back from Australia looks tan, and more attractive, and they GLOW with contentment. They didn't have to learn some goddamn foreign language. They just drank and made friends and screwed and basically spent four months in Eden.

If you're strictly looking into Europe, I went to England. It was awesome. I recommend it. Spain and Italy are filled with great food but tons of Catholic women. You'll only have sex with other American students, which I guess is, uh... not optimal? Aw hell, you can't go wrong. Even if you go to Germany, which is filled with nothing but fucking bossy weirdos. Just leave America. Go anywhere. Leave our shores and don't come back until you're drunk and happy.



I went an all-male Catholic high school. One day in 10th grade English, one of the guys pulled out a sheet of notebook paper and proceeded to wipe a neon green gem that he'd been mining for a while. He wrote "Booger Paper" at the top and passed it on. Within minutes there must have been 20 or so nose nuggets of all various shapes, sizes, colors, and consistencies. Everybody put their initials next to their work for the others to admire. I told my wife this story and she gave me the "I don't know who you are anymore" look. She blames most of my disgusting behavior on that school.


As well she should. At prep school, I'd estimate I pissed out of my dorm room window far more than I pissed in an actual toilet. The toilet was down two flights of stairs. Too far for my tastes.


Have you ever seen a urinal like this? Maybe I have been living in a cave, but this is my first encounter with one and I was very pleased.

Illustration for article titled Birth, Peanut Butter, And Assorted Condiments

Yes. Very old school. Very easy to thread the needle there.


My girlfriend always spends the weekends at my house and I had to put in a Saturday at the office and told her I would be late. Lucky enough I finished up early and headed home. Open the door and the TV was on but she's nowhere to be found, not in the kitchen or front room. Walk to the bedroom and hear a muffled sound and walk on the other side of the bed and she'd on the floor eyes closed and using a vibrator. All I could say was "whoa" and walk right out. WHY DID I WALK OUT? Should I have stayed and helped out? Should I have just treated it as a race and tried to beat her to the finish?


Porn training demands you whip out your penis and say, "You look like you could use some help." You probably interrupted her in an extremely private moment and scared the piss out of her, therefore destroying her mood. Just one of the many ways life is a total letdown from porn.

I used to have that fantasy all the time when I was a kid. I'd walk into a house or classroom and stumble upon some horny lass pleasuring herself, just wishing there was a man around with a working penis to assist her in getting some relief. I did not, nor have I ever, actually stumbled upon such a scenario.


I've also had the reverse fantasy, where I'm caught masturbating, only I'm caught by a sexy lady who is intrigued rather than disgusted. Again, "You look like you could use some help." THEN IT'S ON!

I have been caught masturbating. It never turns out like this. Not at all. TRY KNOCKING NEXT TIME, MOM! JESUS!


Kevin F:

As a kid, a public bathroom's urinal or toilet would often have discarded cigarette butts or better yet half smoked cigarettes. Was there anything better than breaking up the rolling paper and dispersing the tobacco, or if your stream was on that day, the rare nirvana of breaking the filter? Sadly, once restaurants and several other public places got rid of smoking in their premises, there has been a lack of opportunities to engage in cigarette destruction.


Sometimes, if you've pulled over on the side of the road to piss, you'll see a cigarette butt on the asphalt. Same sense of satisfaction, ONLY NOW IN THE WILD!

There is a rare pleasure to be had in pissing on things. If someone were to produce a biodegradable, pipe-friendly series of urinary targets – small figurines of men, women, dogs, terrorists, Jason McIntyre – for you to piss on, I would buy such a thing. Pissing on things, particularly destroying or dissolving things with your stream, is a pleasure only men can know.



I recently thought I would challenge myself to make it from the drive-thru to my destination without plunging into the fries seated next to me.

I'm praying for green lights the whole way because every red light stop is fucking AGONY with those tasty fries taunting me. So by some miracle, I make it to the parking lot at work where I planned on eating my dinner, I stop the car and reach in for my reward. Guess what? The fries are FUCKING COLD.

Punished for willpower. From now on, those fries aren't going to make it ten feet from the drive-thru window.


Why did you do that to yourself? YOU WERE GOING TO EAT IN YOUR FUCKING CAR ANYWAY. Never do that. They're fries. They are meant to be eaten IMMEDIATELY after being fried. Don't waste fucking time.

Even worse than fries in the car is pizza. I will drive 10 mph faster with pizza smell wafting through the car. I pick up the pizza, stick in the passenger seat, get in the other side, close the door, and GOOD LORD THAT SMELLS FANTASTIC. Agony to drive with pizza in the car.



Don't you totally want to light a fire in your living room and cook a deer head over it every time you watch Survivor Man or Man vs Wild?


After I watch any episode of Man vs. Wild at night, I will go to bed that night pretending I'm out in the wild sleeping next to a fire. I'll pull the covers up to my head and shiver and everything. In the wild, it's important to build a fire. Not just for warmth. BUT IT'S SO CRUCIAL FOR MORALE. SURVIVAL IS ALL ABOUT KEEPING YOUR SPIRITS UP.

Old J:

You ever sit in a desk chair and accidentally drop a piece of candy or food? No matter what, that fucker will be impossible to find without getting up and moving the chair. And half the time it's rolled all the way across the room.


Don't forget about stepping on it. My feet will instantly home in on the object and smush it into a million shards. Then I eat the crumbs anyway.

I'll also roll my chair over the thing for good measure. Say, where'd my tempura go?





If you were forced to be one of the two, would you rather be a woman with a penis or a man with a vagina? Explain.


Easy. Woman with penis. Because then you'd actually be a man. With real boobs and everything. There's a reason she-males outnumber he-gals 1,000 to 1, you know. Nothing to complain about if you're a she-male. A man with a vagina? Repulsive.


I have lived in a couple of states and I don't know if this is a nationwide thing with all dry cleaners, but they always seem to break the buttons on my shirts, especially the ones on the cuffs. And I can't sew.


Nor I. Losing a cuff button is the worst, because I'm too lazy to fix it and then the cuff just flaps around and it's clear I'm missing a button. Lose a button on the main strip, that can be ignored easily. But lose a cuff button and the thing may as well go in the fucking garbage.


The Mythbusters tested it out and a falling icicle can totally kill you, so presumably one could be used as a murder weapon as well. One of the few things the Mythbusters haven't taken the piss out of, actually.


That's why I never watch that show. Not only do the two hosts look like they spend their off hours banging inflatable cats, but they usually never prove a myth correct. Assholes. I don't want the myth RUINED. I want it proven, so that I might fantasize about the hide coming off a baseball, or other shit like that. No one likes a buzzkill, SCIENCE BOYS.


What do you think is the answer for the reverse Travis Henry, i.e. the most crumb-grabbers for one road beef? I'm guessing it's 4-5 kids.


With the kids all from different athletes? Probably three or so.

What would complicate this question is abortion. What is the largest number of abortions one groupie has ever had? Remember: multiple abortions can leave a woman sterile. So it's not some insane number like 25. But what about 10? Imagine going in for your tenth abortion. If you pay for nine, the clinic should give you the tenth for free. They should give you the coupon when you walk out of your ninth abortion. HERE! NEXT ONE'S ON US! LEAST WE CAN DO!



How did you and your wife handle putting your first kid to bed when she had to be rocked? We take turns putting our son down, but when it is my wife's turn, she wants me to stay in the room with her. I don' t just want to lay on the floor useless. I can be fixing shit around the house or watching TV. Also, as an English teacher, I have stupid essays to grade. I want to spend time with my wife when we can talk, not whisper. Also, if I lay on the floor I am likely to fall asleep, and then she gets mad at me for falling asleep. When it is my turn, I suggest she can go downstairs, hoping she gets the hint, but she never does.


That's completely unreasonable. The whole point of there being TWO of you is so that one of you is free to live a normal life while the other is stuck with the child. There's no point in BOTH of you suffering. Especially if you only have one kid. Just leave the room and go do work. She'll get used to it.

Wrecking Ball:

Heated M&Ms. Put some on a plate and nuke ‘em for 10 seconds. Sheer, gooey delight. It never occurred to me to do that.


Nor I. But here I sit, fascinated.

When I make chocolate chip cookies, which used to be often, I would nuke the old ones for ten seconds before eating them. Every time. My wife is too lazy to do this, which stuns me. It's ten seconds. You can't wait ten seconds for that cookie to be warm and gooey, Mrs. Fields style? That's crazy.



If you were being chased by someone, and you were both on foot, what do you think would be the coolest way to get away from them? You could leap from a bridge onto a boat passing underneath. You could run and jump onto a moving train, either onto the caboose from behind or, if it's a freight train, into a random boxcar that happens to have the door open. If I were being chased I would like a ski lift to be involved somehow. If they followed you onto the lift you would have the options of continuing to run once you reached the top, leaping off the lift at some point and risking the 20 foot drop, or maybe even surprising them at the top. Lots of possibilities.


I like the moving train or bus. Remember: all buses have that hatch in the top. You could totally open the hatch, drop down, commandeer the bus from the driver, and then drive it through a fruit cart and a plate of glass.

I also like to incorporate Parkour into my fantasy. In my imagination, I have Jackie Chan's agility, and can therefore leap on top of that dumpster and then fly over that chain link fence in one graceful motion. In reality, it would take me 7 hours to do this. This is what the imagination is for.


Guns also have to be involved. You have a gun. Your pursuer has a gun. And you have to hide behind an oil barrel every twenty feet or so and engage in a brief gunfight before moving ahead.

I imagine any chase I'm in ends up in some kind of abandoned warehouse or factory. But the factory still has working conveyor belts and shit. Basically, I envision Donkey Kong, only all too real. And no monkey.



You really blow your nose in the shower? That is fucking disgusting. Fuck you fatty.


But where else am I supposed to blow it? I save trees doing that.


I'm cold and there are wolves after me.

I say we call Matlock. He'll find the culprit. It's probably that evil Gavin MacLeod or George "Goober" Lindsay!



What is normal to wash yourself with while showering? I grew up using a wash cloth, but my girlfriend bought a loofa to keep at my apartment not long ago and that thing is fucking sweet. It's mildly embarrassing, but a loofa is at least ten times nicer to wash with than a washcloth.


Get over yourself. Use a loofah or a poof. Welcome to the 21st century, men. Washcloths are retarded.


If you met a girl and asked what she did for a living what answer would throw you off the most? My friends say prostitute, porn actress, or some kind of fecal examining microbiologist. For me it's gotta be dominatrix.


It would be weird meeting a hooker or a porn star like that. Deep down, every guy loves hookers and porn stars. But in that social setting, I would become very conservative. "Oh, well, that's nice." Total hypocrite move. But whatever. Porn stars aren't normal people and I'd feel weird actually interacting with them.

Oh, and to answer your question: Hit woman. "Hi, I'm Jenny. I kill people for a shadowy criminal syndicate that has its tentacles in every branch of the US government."



I'm so excited I just had to tell someone and figured you could appreciate it.

I work in a single floor building. It's an old warehouse that was converted to office spaces so while it's single floor, there's probably 8 feet above the ceiling to the roof. It's mostly crammed with wires and plumbing up there.

The other day I was slacking off walking around the building when I decided to check out the old cafeteria that closed a few years ago. I went in the back area of the cafeteria and found doorway-sized cubbyholes that were obviously lockers for the old cafeteria staff. But the last locker area had two stairs and then a bend to the left with about 6 more stairs. I couldn't help but follow them.

Guess what's at the top of the stairs? A brand fucking new unisex bathroom with one urinal, one throne, a sink and a locking door! Obviously built just for the cafeteria staff. It's completely secluded and since there's no cafeteria staff anymore, no one uses that area. All the lights are kept off. I feel like I've found the hidden 13th floor of a hotel or that hidden train platform to Hogwarts. Needless to say, I never shit at home anymore. I always take my trips to the second floor bathroom in my one floor building. I am so happy I will never leave my job. One downside is that I will have to kill anyone I find using that bathroom.


And you would be justified in doing so.

I spent my entire childhood hoping to find secret passages in both my house and any other building I entered. I scoured walls. I pulled books halfway out of bookcases to see if a latch was caught. Even today, I secretly hope that I will, unwittingly, walk into a big house, trip over something, and open up a portal to fucking Middle Earth, or somewhere less gay than Narnia. It will happen. You watch. One day I'll disappear. And you'll never hear from me again, because I'll be fighting Tiamat.

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