Before we get to the Funbag, I should note that I'm doing a reading in Chapel Hill tonight at 7 p.m. at Flyleaf Books. The afterparty is gonna be at Linda's, which is about a mile away. And then, tomorrow night, there's gonna be a reading in Durham at the Regulator at 7 p.m., with drinks at either Charlie's or Dain Place afterward. So if you're in the Tobacco Road area, come on down and listen to me read out loud for five minutes, then ask me any stupid question you like. I've tried to avoid drinking before these readings, but I almost always fail and end up showing up drunk and mouthy. FUN!
A stranger approaches you one night and makes you an offer. You can spend the rest of your life being very well taken care of: all bills paid, your choice of living accommodations, the finest medical care, the best food made by the best chefs, all the travel and luxury you'd ever want. You will never worry about having cash again for the rest of your life, and neither will your family. BUT! You can never have sex again, ever. You would continue to want it, but never be able to have it. Then, his antipode approaches and makes you a counteroffer: All the butt you want, whenever you want it, from whoever you want it. All sorts of kinky strange, BUT! You have to go live in squalor and rank poverty for the rest of your life. CHOOSE YOUR FATE!
So sex or being rich, essentially? RICH. Let's face it, when you get married, you're basically choosing a life of stability and security over a life of rampant ass-tagging anyway. Going fully celibate isn't a huge leap after that. At least you'd never have to WORRY about never getting laid again. You know your fate is sealed. If I never have to fill out a fucking health care form again, you can make me celibate AND cut off my balls.
When you get to be my age, getting laid stops being the most important thing in the universe. When you're a teenager, it's EVERYTHING. It's all that matters. I spent my teenage years praying to get laid and spending many a sleepless night worrying that it would NEVER happen. Ever. I would get old, no girl would ever want me, and I'd die with a pair of shriveled-up testicles. This all sounds amusing in retrospect, but it was the ONLY thing I ever cared about back then. I was a matter of life and death to me. I used to watch people get laid with ease in movies and on TV and I'd get very pissy about it. GETTING LAID DOESN'T HAPPEN JUST LIKE THAT, PEOPLE.
Then you spend your 20s ACTUALLY getting laid and that just makes you even more ass-focused. Did I get laid last night? If I did, who can I tell about it? If I didn't, what can be done to rectify this situation? Who can I call? Where can I go? What can be done to make sex happen for me once work is over?
Then you get married and you become concerned about things other than sex, perhaps because you know you aren't as sexually active as you used to be. I used to flip past political talk shows when I was in my 20s and be like, "Look at these shitheads arguing about taxes and shit. THEY AIN'T GETTIN' LAID TONIGHT!" Now, I have more in common with those jackasses than guys in their 20s. This is horrible transformation for any man to go through, because getting laid was SO important back then. And because your sex life, at times, feels like a definitive statement of your virility. Then you get older and you either cling to that notion or you let it slide and move on to other matters. Great men do great things in spite of their libido, not because of it. It's not like Edison got his idea for the light bulb from banging a hooker (if only). So if forgoing hot monkey action gets me a private dishwasher, I'm in.
When was the last time you think Joe Paterno had sex? I'm guessing 1997 after Joe Jurevicius had a good game against Wisconsin.
I tried doing a simple Google search to figure out the average age when Americans finally stop having sexual intercourse. Alas, no one has done a formal study on this, which angers me. We do 50,000 collegiate studies on corn subsidies every year (NOTE: May not be true), and yet we have no scientific research that pinpoints the average age when your penis will at last fall silent. What a load of shit.
All we have to go on here in anecdotal evidence. Thanks to the advent of Viagra for men and Provestra for women, not to mention any number of new lubricants on the market, old people are now ABLE to have sex, which is very important. In order for sex between heterosexual old people to occur, you need HARDNESS and WETNESS. Without those two things, you're essentially trying to produce a campfire instead of an orgasm. Thanks to drugs and lube, we know that old people are physically able to have sex. We also know that JoePa's wife loved him dearly, perhaps even worshiped him. Remember, when Joe and Sue Paterno met, Joe was 31 years old and she was 18. Pretty big gap, no pun intended. I think they were probably able to still get frisky every now and again. I'll say that Joe Pa last got laid sometime in the 2000s. But I bet they stuck to the bed and avoided any talk of moving the action to the showers.
I wonder if JoePa fapped in the past decade. Can you do that at 85? Or is your skin so thin and easily torn that you never risk it? This is very pertinent to my future.
What is the proper amount of small candy (skittles, M&Ms, etc.) to pour into a hand (if you're dumb enough to offer)? Also, what do you do if you pour WAY too much into their hand? We've all been there, the awkward, 'do I let them pour some back after it's been in their unknown hands?'
Think of recipient's palm as a dartboard. A dartboard has a bull in the center (with a bull's eye inside the bull), a triple ring (which I never hit) some distance outside the bull, and the double ring circling the perimeter. Your aim is to fill the palm with candy until you hit the edge of the triple ring. Call it a dozen Skittles. That's a fair amount. Any more than that, and the candy can spill out of their hand, which would be the worst thing to ever happen in human history. Any less, and you look like a cheap bastard. Plus, it needs to be a good handful that you can throw into your mouth all at once. If it's too much, then you end up either having to stuff in it all in there and look like a fat fuck, or you have to take in half the load and wait to take in the next. And that shit about M&M melting in your mouth and not your hand? LIES. The shell dye bleeds into your palm within half a second of contact. And then you're left looking like you just slapped a clown. It's awful.
Last week, the Rock n' Roll Hall of Fame announced that they would be inducting Guns N' Roses. Is there any chance that Axl and Slash agree to accept the award together and perhaps play a song for old times' sake?
It's unlikely due to the fact that Axl is mad at Slash for appearing with the band without Axl's permission in "Guitar Hero III", which is so lame I want to cry. Perhaps it's for the best. The last time I saw Axl perform live on TV, he was 70,000 pounds and was apparently wearing the skin of a fresh corpse on his face. And the last time I saw Slash, he was aiding and abetting the Black Eyed Peas in butchering "Sweet Child O' Mine" at the Super Bowl. He can go to Hell for that. So the idea of those two getting back together just for a bad rendition of "Mr. Brownstone" isn't exactly an enticing proposition.
By the way, Madonna is your halftime entertainment at the Super Bowl this week, and I was trying to figure out the worst thing she could do to piss off the nation during that show, apart from doing her cover version of "American Pie". I think she should strip down and flash her vag at the commissioner. Really spread it out, too. Just pull her labia apart and give the Ginger Hammer a long look at her old pink gashmeat. The fucking world would blow apart if that happened.
But I know that isn't gonna happen. If I were doing the Super Bowl halftime show, I'd plan on doing all kinds of inappropriate things on stage to prove that I'm a rebel and that I'm no slave to corporate America. Then I'd get up there, wimp out, and go about my business professionally like a total pussy.
Put this in your funbag.
Done and done.
I'm a little under the weather. When I cough, sometimes a chunk of phlegm comes up. This happened earlier while I was walking through the hall, so I ducked in to the bathroom to spit it out. I did not flush. Subsequently, a coworker said, "Dude, was that your loogie in the toilet? You've gotta flush that shit down." Is he right? Seems like a lot of effort to me.
Agreed. And where the fuck does he get off calling you out for that? You do NOT call out another man in the bathroom. I don't care if he left a pile of AIDS in the sink. You keep your grievances about that to yourself. What harm is a floating loogie gonna do? If anything, if gives the next guy something to aim at.
Last week, my wife and I were having a drunk conversation about the dumb things we did before we met each other. She tells me about the time back in college when she and her douche boyfriend got ahold of a crummy webcam and took some pics of her, some in skimpy outfits and some nude. She says the pictures never left her possession and the floppy disks containing them were probably thrown away.
My wife was the captain of her school's stadium dance team until she injured her hip as a junior, but I didn't meet her until she was 23 so I never got to see her when she was in the best shape of her life. The only college pictures I've seen are of her in flannels or sweatshirts and jeans. She's even wearing jeans and a long-sleeved shirt in her dance team yearbook photos. (Damn you, 1994!) Since she mentioned it, I've been obsessed with the idea of finding those disks. Is there anything wrong with secretly tearing the house apart when she's gone to try to find them? And if I find them, do I tell her I did?
Of course you don't tell her if you did. But yes, it's worth scouring the house for them, even though you and I both know that when she says the disks were probably thrown away, that they were DEFINITELY thrown away. She's no fool. At the very least, you have the FANTASY of those pictures in your mind, so that you can recreate the 69 scene from A History of Violence with her inside your mind. Very important.
If you were to lay across a railroad track and a train hit you... would you be able to derail the train... or would it just slice through you like a hot knife through butter?
It would depend almost entirely on whether or not the train hitting you had a cow catcher, which is the meanest looking train accessory ever. I want one on the front of my car, it's so fucking badass. Actually, you know what's even more badass? SNOWPLOW TRAINS. Do a GIS search for "Snowplow trains". The shovel-faced snowplow trains look like Cobra Commander. And the fan-operated snowplow trains look like spaceships. I have to read train books to my kid all the time and I always pause on the snowplow train page just to gawk. They're awesome.
Anyway, if the train in question does not have a cow catcher or badass plow to scoop you up and toss you to the side of the road, I think your dead body would have a very good chance of derailing the train (NOTE: Uneducated person making wild assumption). Regardless of whether or not you literally derail the train, the engineer is almost certainly going to stop the train in order to alert authorities, clear the body, and allow for investigation. So don't do it. You'll be of great annoyance to all if you do.
I accidentally let some leftover chicken fettucini alfredo sit on the counter overnight, and I was in a rush this morning and packed it as my lunch, which I just consumed four minutes ago. I'm convincing myself that today's foods are so packed full of preservatives that I'm probably NOT going to die of food poisoning. Right?
Did it smell okay? If it doesn't smell like limburger, I think you're in the clear. One time, I left a big pot of chili out on a cold stove all night long. When I came back the next morning, I dug right in. I didn't hesitate for a moment. No way I'm letting that shit go to waste. The bacteria adds a whole other dimension to the dish.
My wife gets very angry with me when I save food she knows we're never gonna eat. For example, if we make rice pilaf one night or something like that, and there's three tablespoons left of it, I NEVER throw it out. Either I eat it right out of the pan (NOTE: I can't make rice without eating half of it right out of the pan), or I store it in a Tupperware container that is far greater in volume than the remaining food. So a week later my wife will find a one-gallon Rubbermaid container with four bites of rice in it and hold it up like evidence at a crime scene. "YOU SEE THIS?! WHY DID WE SAVE THIS?!" Because there are starving AIDS babies out there, that's why. I guess I care about the children more than you do, Missy!
I went to an environmental law symposium (yes, it was exactly as awful as it sounds) in the Spring of '09. George Allen, the former governor of Virginia and current Senate candidate, was the keynote speaker. When he wasn't speaking, he was dipping and spitting into a porcelain coffee cup. Shocking behavior from a guy who once lost his Senate seat because he forgot that it's not cool to use racial slurs at a campaign rally.
I could see dip being a real asset if you're trying to court people in the Tea Party or something. Imagine Mitt Romney going to some bowling alley in Pawnee and whipping out a tin of Skoal. "Just enjoying some fine dipping tobacco with some of my blue collar friends, because I love living in a country where I am FREE to dip." BOOM. Two extra votes, right there. I'm shocked more red state politicians don't court the dip vote.
I am convinced the pretzel people have some dirt on the party mix people. How are pretzels still in party mix? They suck and are always the last thing finished. I usually end up throwing away a bag of pretzels once everything with cheese and bbq powder is gone.
My wife occasionally buys Munchies, which is a Frito Lay party mix that includes Doritos, Cheetos, Sun Chips, and Rold Gold pretzels. Now, this would be the greatest snack mix in the history of everything if only the fucking Rold Golds weren't crowding up the bag. They're a complete waste of time and RUIN the experience, because I have to make sure that I don't grab any of them when I jam my hand in there. I don't know why they feel the need to overcrowd the thing with boring-ass pretzels. The profit margin on pretzels must be inexplicably huge. For the Super Bowl, I'm just dumping a bag of Cheetos and a bag of Doritos together and letting them make magic.
When I was in college, the school would let you host a keg party in a dorm so long as you also provided non-alcoholic beverages and snacks for anyone who didn't wish to imbibe. But such people didn't EXIST, and so every dorm had a closet supply of generic soda from Shaw's and giant bags of plain popcorn and pretzels ready to bring out for every keg party. Just the cheapest, most horrible snacks you can imagine. They essentially served as ornamentation. No one dared drink them or eat them. In fact, if you tried opening them, the host would get pissed because he needed that shit for the next party. They may have been 60 years old.
What would happen if you had to pay to jerk off? For the sake of this hypothetical, we'll assume all money collected is going toward reducing the national deficit. How much would you be willing to pay to spank it? I think I would be OK with $3 each time, but nothing more. Either that, or I would have to reduce my frequency. Also, how quickly will America's teenagers blow through their allowance if this were the case?
Let's set aside the fact that a Fap Tax would cause the American government to be overthrown immediately, and focus strictly on the personal consequences of such a scenario. You and I both know that there are varying degrees of horniness. For example, sometimes you're just hanging out on a Sunday afternoon and you decide to go take care of business. Then, 40 minutes later, you do it again, mostly because you have nothing better to do. Are you gonna pay $3 for that second go-round if there's a Fap Tax? Probably not. It's not gonna kill you to hold out.
But if you just spent two hours in a college class staring at that girl you like, and she was nice enough to wear black tights and a jean skirt today, then you are probably on the verge of blowing a gasket if you don't find some sweet relief. You're gonna pay MORE than three dollars for franchise rights to your hand in that instance. A Fap Tax would essentially make you choosier about when you HAVE to do your dirty work. I'd probably put myself on a budget. Only once a day. That would add up to $90 a month. Then I would be forced to choose between paying the Fap Tax or paying for cable. I think cable would lose.
This gets dicey if the price goes up. What if it were $100? What if only the 1 percent could afford to fap on a regular basis? I think incidents of prostitution and sexual assault would SKYROCKET. It would make the world a much uglier place. SAY NO TO THE FAP TAX.
Does the Redzone Channel guy ever get a bathroom break? I hope he is in fact sitting pantsless on a toilet instead of a chair behind that desk all Sunday afternoon.
Andrew Siciliano answered this question in a chat with ESPN:
we pre-record 1 generic toss for every game before the show, such as "we're switching games...let's head to dallas for the cowboys and eagles. you're watching the red zone channel". when i need to go, they play those. we only use them maybe a dozen times all year. endurance!!
I love watching food shows. But the kind that only show people cooking shit. Like, here's a 30 minute show, I'm gonna show you 4 recipes. Done.
You ever see that Rocco show on Food Channel? Holy christ. Him and his wife think they're on a goddamn sitcom. It's almost like they forgot it's a cooking show, so every 9 minutes he throws in some half-assed Italian recipe.
This is why I automatically fast forward any boat scene featured on The Layover. Any time Bourdain gets on a boat, or he re-enacts a scene from some obscure movie that he loves but you don't, or he checks out a fancy hotel room he's staying in that you'll never be able to afford, FAST FORWARD. Those scenes are like the plot of a porno movie. All filler.
Same with Chopped. When they spend five minutes introducing each idiot contestant? FAST FORWARD. When they spend 30 seconds in the back room with the contestants awkwardly assessing their chances ("It's anyone's ballgame, really.")? FAST FORWARD. When some asshole gets chopped and spends a minute airing his grievances? FAST FORWARD. Fuck off. You do not matter.
I got a vasectomy 2 weeks ago and once the nurse came in the doctor left for a bit (don't know why). As she was cleaning/sterilizing my manhood, I started to get an erection. She had my shaft in one hand, to keep it still I guess, and the other was wiping some liquid on my balls. I just kept waiting for her to say "this happens all the time" but nothing, not a word, her hand just stayed there the whole time. I was hard as a rock by the time she was done. Thank God it went down by the time the doctor got back in.
Anyways…should I tell my wife of this experience? I think it's funny now but not sure how she'll see it.
Keep that to yourself. Nothing good will come of telling your old lady. And kudos to your nurse for keeping her cool, remaining professional, and giving you the impression that she may have started pumping at any moment. So very tense.
Time again for another GREAT MOMENT IN BAT KILLING HISTORY.
In the summer of 2010, several months after moving into my new (new to me, but built in 1911; nooks, crannies and animal-friendly cervices galore) house in Minneapolis, some friends and I decided to have a hard night of drinking, and so we did. After closing an Uptown bar or two, several of us wandered back to my house, planning to drink a bit more, eat, and sleep. Bats, I discovered, don't care about your plans.
The first thing we noticed as we entered my house, hanging from the wood trim lining the entryway from my living room to my dining room, was a bat. The slamming of the door behind us startled it: it spread its wings for an instant (PUKE) then began flapping wildly around the main floor of my house, from the kitchen (in back), back through the dining room and toward the front door. After several nauseating seconds spent coming to the realization that this thing was zipping around aimlessly among us, we decided it was time to take action.
Our first manly act was to try to get the bat to leave the house entirely. I charged into the kitchen and threw open the back door. We also threw back open the front door, so as to give that piece of shit options. It chose, instead, to continue flying back and forth, occasionally up the stairs and back down, almost leaving the house entirely, but instead, NOT.
Our next, last, and manliest act of all was to fight back. I grabbed a dustpan, another friend, a broom. We took position on the landing atop the first flight of stairs, directly facing the open front door. After tracing its flight path a time or two more, the bat acknowledged that it was "go time," and flew directly up the stairs toward us. I stood there with the dustpan, essentially frozen, but more or less ready to deflect the bat should it reach me. My friend, who was standing a step in front of me and is exceptionally athletic for someone who is 300+ pounds, took one well-aimed broom swipe, and knocked the bat to the hardwood floor of the landing. While the shot was square, it was still just a broom, so I couldn't figure out while the bat struggled so mightily to get back up. However, it did, and instinct took over from there. I proceeded to stomp on the bat. Repeatedly. Like, eight or ten times. A third friend then ran up the stairs with Lysol spray, and drenched him in it. Bat brains on the floor, bold Lysol stench. Offensive to every sense.
I then scooped the bat up in the dustpan, walked out the front door, and flung him clear across the road. I channeled my inner-Louis CK and screamed to him that I hoped his bat wife found him and died of a broken heart. We then drank a bit more than originally planned on, had lost all appetite for food, and went paranoid into sleep.
The following morning, after spending several minutes collecting myself, I remembered that we had murdered a bat the night before. I walked upstairs and out the front door to admire our handiwork when I discovered that he was precisely where you'd expect a dead bat to be the next day: not where you left it. No trace of him. We had left him near enough to the curb in a no-parking zone that you wouldn't expect a car to have carried it off under its tire, and it was a Sunday morning, so no municipal worker was likely to have had to have scooped the diseased rodent off the pavement. I submit that stomping and Lysol are nonfatal to bats, and that I must live the rest of my life in fear of his return.