Sports News Without Access, Favor, Or Discretion

Crazy Rich Arabs Are The Craziest Bastards Of All!

FunbagTime for your weekly edition of the Deadspin Funbag. Got something on your mind? Email the Funbag.

Your letters:


I know you cover a lot of "Would you do *insert something gross* for a million dollars* type questions here. My question is a two-parter. 1) Do you think there are real millionaires in the world that fund these scenarios? 2) If you were a filthy rich, would you?


Let's answer the first question. YES. I think there are definitely rich people out there who will happily spend money to see people humiliate themselves for pure sport. They don't even have to offer a million bucks. I bet five figures does the trick. I'm all but certain the Hussein sons did this sort of thing while they were alive. "Farooq! BURN YOUR OWN FEET FOR THIS ARAB PENNY!" And then Farooq would go and set his own feet on fire. And then Uday Hussein would withhold the penny and have Farooq tortured.

This is impolite to say, but it's the truth: The craziest motherfuckers on Earth are filthy rich men from the Middle East. You know those Sultan guys who would invite beauty pageant contestants over "for dinner" and then make them sex hostages? That's not even the tip of the iceberg for the crazy shit these guys will do. I promise you those guys happily make prostitutes take a potato peeler to their boobs for a hundred bucks every day after lunch. They're fucking nuts.


I had a friend who was from the Middle East and became rich. Once he turned rich, he got into X and cocaine and basically became deranged. We were planning a bachelor party for someone at one point. His plan for the bachelor party was to take the groom up in an airplane, have the pilot PRETEND the plane was going to crash, parachute out of the plane into the ocean, and swim to a strategically located island populated with hookers to surprise the groom. He laid out this plan to me without a trace of irony. If you see a rich Arab dude coming at you, RUN AWAY. He's gonna want to cover you in molasses and roll you down a gravel pit.

Now, to answer the second question: No. I would not see if people would do something gross for a million bucks. You can watch people eat poop for FREE thanks to the Internet. I'd much rather buy smoked ham (see below).



Is there anything worse than being in a hurry while pulling a suitcase, only to have it flip over out of control when you take ONE step out of a straight line that the suitcase MUST travel in to remain upright and on its wheels? When this happens I have the urge to throw it over my shoulder and carry it like a bag of sand to my very important destination.


I concur wholeheartedly. In fact, I have yet to drag a rollerboard suitcase from a jetway to a taxi stand without it flipping on its side at least six times. It's not possible for me. And if I'm in a hurry, the thing will flip every three steps. Like Erik, there will inevitably come a moment where I'm just like FUCK THIS, then I carry the thing the rest of the way. This flipping happens because the handle on virtually any rolling suitcase is always about three inches shorter than I'd like it to be. I have to stoop down just enough for it to be fucking agony. I think the little Asian people making suitcases in the Samsonite sweatshop made these handle too short on purpose. Just to get back at us. Fuckers.

I've had suitcases flip on me while on escalators, which BLOWS. I get out of the plane and I'm rushing to the ground transportation level because I can't stand the idea of being in the fucking airport a second longer than I have to. Then I get to the DOWN escalator and I'm sitting there with the suitcase on the step above me, and I just start to go nuts with impatience, so I'll just drag that shit down the steps and it goes THUNK THUNK THUNK. Then everyone turns and stares and thinks, "Who is the fuckhead making all that noise?" And THAT is precisely the moment when the suitcase will turn over on the step and slide down violently onto my calf, causing me great pain and resulting in me awkwardly trying to right the ship on the way down. Then I get really fucking pissed at the suitcase for not cooperating with me and I start hitting it and screaming YOU STUPID FUCKING SUITCASE I FUCKING HATE YOU!


That's usually when the security comes and escorts me out.


I thought you might like this, it's from the Airman's Manual. I remember the first time I saw this and laughed at the seeming matter-of-factness of dealing with organs OUTSIDE THE FUCKING BODY.



I need to see the rest of this manual. I want to know how long it is. I want to know if it gives specific instructions for every possible gruesome result of air combat. What do I do if I get sucked into an engine turbine and my legs get sheared clean off? What do I do if I sit on a landmine? What is the protocol in the event I parachute down onto a spiked iron fence and that fence blasts through my taint? If I joined the Air Force and was presented with this manual, I'd go AWOL three minutes later.


I also like the "Always check and treat for shock" disclaimer at the bottom. I'm pretty sure checking for shock won't be necessary. I think you can advance directly to treating for shock.


Do you have as much trouble as I do selecting a new toothbrush at the store? I like using a brand new toothbrush, but picking one out is torture. I stand there for seemingly 10 minutes like a complete dope, trying to figure out which one I want. I always try to find the one I know I like, but of course that is never there (What, did they only make one Colgate Navigator?). Then I try to decide if I want ones with a tongue scraper or rubber bristles on the edges or circle bristle patterns or whatever. Then I get one home and then see that it is a toothbrush better suited for cleaning tile grout. Why is finding a good toothbrush so damn hard?


Get married. Get married, and you never need fret about such things again. One day, you'll go to the bathroom and POOF! A new toothbrush is magically in your little bathroom sink cup. How did it get there? Did you marry some kind of magic fairy? ASTOUNDING. I haven't purchased a toothbrush in a decade. If I wasn't married, I'd just use the same toothbrush forever, without changing it. And it would get that horrible toothpaste concentrate stuck on the bottom of the bristles. The kind you have to dig out with a toothpick. Terrifying stuff. I use far more toothpaste than I should. (When I was a kid, they had an Aquafresh ad where the toothpaste was applied in this very elegant serif shape. I've spent my life trying to duplicate it.)

Or go electric. Most dentists recommend (i.e., constantly fucking try and sell you) an electric toothbrush. If you go electric, you're just purchasing new heads for it. I'm sad adult electric toothbrushes don't have Spiderman painted on them, but that's the way it goes.


I don't think my wife has ever purchased the same toothbrush for me twice. Like Randall says, there are so many, it's virtually impossible to pick out the exact same kind you threw out in the morning. I always get a new toothbrush and use it the first time and am like HOLY SHIT! THIS BRUSH IS SO NEW AND FRESH! Look at the staggered bristles! And the circular head! I can really feel it workin' the gums. Always nice to break a toothbrush cherry.

Since we're on the topic, you should note that the most difficult part of having kids, apart from feeding them, is brushing their teeth. It's like trying to wrestle down a badger. You basically have to pin their arms down and rape the shit out of their mouth with the brush. It's horrible. No way the kid isn't traumatized by the whole thing. IF YOU FUCKING BITE DOWN ON THAT BRUSH ONE MORE TIME, MISSY, IT'S GOING THROUGH YOUR FUCKING EYE.



What's your ideal, or at least preferred, duration for a session of self-love?
Personally, if I can't find at least 30 minutes to do the job right, I'm not doing it at all.


Are you crazy? 30 minutes? That's downright tantric. I have no interested in spending longer than two minutes on the whole enterprise. I have shit to do. You get to my age, and you really start to become mindful of the clock after you've been jerking it more than five minutes. What am I doing? Why am I taking so long? I could be making cookies. Can we just get this over with, please? It's like I'm my own bad Jewish girlfriend now.


Check out the asshole I spotted cruising through Boston yesterday...




About six years ago, I worked for a government agency that was having an event in the old executive office building. I was returning some scissors I'd retrieved to help hang a sign, when right by me, I'm talking four feet away, walks Dick Cheney.

I shifted my grip to hold the scissors by the blade, and kept walking. I must have thought that the agent walking with him would have spotted a glint of light off the blade and I would have been tackled based on that alone, not even giving me a chance to scream something incomprehensible like "sic semper akhbar!"

My girlfriend at the time actually said she was sorry I didn't take advantage. I mean, I'm not a fan, but the prison rape scenarios for (vice) presidential assassins are the part of the spy fantasy you always forget about.


Indeed they are. It's hard for me, personally, to walk by a famous person and not think about murdering and/or assaulting them. Even if I go to a concert. I'll see the star go on stage, and I'll think to myself, "Hey, what if I ran up there and stabbed him in the head? That would be weird." And it would be weird. Very weird.

But I only get so many chances to kill a famous person in this life, and my mind is very cognizant of that sort of thing. Especially if I were to encounter the Vice President or President (any of them). It's like English Bob said: "Why NOT shoot the President?" I know! If I have scissors and I'm walking by the Vice President, there's no way I'm not gonna play out the entire assassination storyline in my head. Stab the fucker. Get wrestled to the ground. Get interrogated. Become famous overnight. Have a sensational trial. Get sent to Poundtown. Get letters from nutjob women asking me to marry them. Marry one. Have her visit. Make little assassin babies in the conjugal trailer. That whole sequence flashes by in about half a second.


The Secret Service has to know this. They have to know everyone who shakes hands with the President must be thinking, "Hey, what if I shot this guy right now? That would be CRAZY." And virtually all of those people will restrain themselves from acting out that little flighty thought. We're a much better civilization than we give ourselves credit for.


I saw The Hold Steady in the Minneapolis last summer and I thought that was the ultimate location to see The Hold Steady since a lot of their songs involve the Twin Cites. But what do you think is the ultimate Band-Venue combination?


Probably if Coldplay played live at a baby shower.

I'd also love to see Slayer play live in a still-active Church of some sort. Preferably Evangelical. You'd never forget a show like that.



So the other day I found myself in the always terrifying situation of being completely out of toilet paper. None on the roll, no spare rolls in the cabinet. I looked around for something to use and in the trashcan found a used dryer sheet. It was surprisingly absorbent and even smelled very fresh. It was almost like a poor man's babywipe.


Best of all, it reduces anal static cling.

By the way, when the wife asks me to switch the laundry, I never remember the fabric softener. Ever. I always say it's an accident, but I also think it's because I subconsciously derive great joy from pulling stuck clothing apart. It makes a cool sound. Riiiiipppppp!


I wiped my ass once with a tossed out brown paper bag. That was terrible. I also went camping once and had to use leaves. I hated the leaves, so the second time around in the woods, I used a rock. The rock was better than the leaves. Quite cool to the touch. In fact, I think I liked it better than the paper bag. If I were a smart fellow, I'd keep an emergency poop rock in my bathroom at all times, lest paper products cannot be found. It would be both functional AND decorative.



Have you ever noticed how your body seems to produce food adrenaline whenever dessert comes at a restaurant? I'm sitting there stuffing my face full of appetizers, salad (so I don't look like a fat fuck in front of my girlfriend), and the main course until my stomach shouts at me I'M FULL YOU FAT ASS!

But then, as soon as dessert comes, my body releases some sort of chemical that makes me think I'm hungry again so I can plow through that chocolate concoction with ice cream on top. But it's all a fucking lie! Ten seconds after I finish eating that chocolatty behemoth, my stomach punishes me for my insolence by making me near nauseous for the next hour. It is like when athletes get an adrenaline rush that makes them forget they've sprained an ankle, only it hurts fifteen times worse the next day because they've injured it more.


Well it's no secret why your body would trick you into having dessert. It's dessert. It's fantastic. You only get a few million chances at dessert in your life. You never want to turn it down.

I think the reason I also keep eating at any restaurant or buffet, despite being full, is because I can still hear my mom warning me as a kid not to spoil my appetite. Whenever she said that to me, I'd always think to myself, "Screw you, lady. I'm not spoiling SHIT. I'll show you! More Doritos pleez." I mean really, have you EVER truly spoiled your appetite in your life? Enough to refuse something delicious you know is coming down the pike? I haven't. Maybe I'm technically full, but if I know there's peanut butter mousse coming up on the dessert menu, I still WANT it. I'm still mentally hungry for it. I'm still gonna eat it, then projectile vomit it twenty minutes later. Nothing's gonna stop me from overindulging.


I went out to dinner the other night and they had popovers in the breadbasket. Popovers are fucking INSANE. I ate, like, three of them. This was probably enough calories to constitute a full dinner. I was full. But I still plowed through all of the coming dinner anyway. You only get so many chances at steak.


Saw this awful cobra in Sacramento this week…


Oh, what I'd give to see a 48-year old Tawny Kitaen splayed out on that thing.


After a long shitty day at work, finally driving home, I heard a call-in contest on a local food radio show that's sandwiched between sports talk shows. The host named 3 dishes he had at a particular restaurant and whoever could name the establishment would win a killer $50 smoked ham and a 1 in 20 chance drawing for a macking bbq pit.

I called in and nailed it after people had been trying for over 2 hours. You'd think I'd just whipped Ken Jennings' ass in Jeopardy. Unfortunately, no one else shared in my enthusiasm, getting a really tepid high-five from my wife. I'm thinking about eating the ham by myself, selling the grill if I win and gambling the money on an MLB chase system, after which I will spend the winnings only on myself. Are my actions justified? Shitting on someone's parade is just wrong.


Agreed. Your lady was wrong to not delight in your free ham. Women, I find, aren't as enthused with smoked meat products as men are. And I'll never understand that. It's meat, only it's SMOKED. It's like, the best thing ever. You know how Leitch gets all gay when he talks about baseball? That's the same feeling I get when you bring up smoked ham. My dream is to one day have a giant smokehouse in the backyard, with assorted hams and sausages hanging inside at all hours. Then when I die, I want my body used as fuel for the smoke, so that I might infuse a supply of ribs with my Drewy flavor. And then my family must eat those ribs and LIKE them.

When I was a kid, I used to call in to radio stations all the time. Shocking, I know. I'd call in for contests, or I'd call in to request a song. I tried to call in to Stern about 37,000 times. I NEVER got through. Ever. I never even made it to the screening process, which sucked because I'd get on the phone knowing the answer to a question and wait patiently while it rang and rang, and I'd be so fucking jazzed to get through and be on the air and win some free crap. Or I'd imagine getting on Stern, saying something funny, and then Howard would love me and invite me to come and replace Jackie Martling and become a heroin addict. Instead, the phone would just keep ringing. Or I'd get a busy signal, redial, get a busy signal again, and do it 4,000 more times. My childhood was very boring.


When I was in college, I finally got through to a sports talk radio show. They were talking about Michigan vs. Penn State. I was a big Michigan fan at the time, so I called in to explain why I thought Michigan would win. I stated my case very clearly. They had won in Happy Valley two years earlier. They had Charles Woodson. Blah blah blah. The DJ and I talked and then he said "good call" at the end. Oh, I was so fucking excited to hear that. I WAS A GOOD CALLER. I ANALYZED THE GAME PERFECTLY. I SHOULD CLEARLY HAVE MY OWN SHOW.

I became extremely overconfident and began calling in to other sports talk shows to display my knowledge. I got through to WFAN once. A caller on WFAN once really did get his own show. Surely, I would be next. I called in and bitch about Yankee Stadium not having an instant replay Jumbotron. The host said Yankee Stadium had always been that way and that I was an idiot. Then he cut me off.


I never did get that show. And if you ever heard the Jeff Garlin podcast, you know I never will.


I've been using the same pen for about 10 months. In that time, I've used up ALMOST ALL the ink of said pen without losing/breaking/irrevocably-soiling it.

I'm absolutely notorious for not only misplacing these bastards, but also chewing on them and bending them to the point where the shatter in the middle of important meetings. I feel like I deserve a fucking medal for judiciousness has probably saved the company upwards of $3.00 on office supplies this fiscal year.


That IS amazing. I lose my pen every three minutes. I was given an engraved pen by my brother for my graduation. It had my name on it and everything. I lost it a DAY later. It wasn't my fault. It was a pen! They're made to be lost. Why would you ever spend $100 on a Cross pen? That's lunacy, I tell you.

I don't even bother buying pens anymore. I just steal one anywhere I can and amass them in a drawer. I steal pens from the dentist's office. From work. From my wife. From friends and relatives. I steal them all. Of course, when I steal them, the person I'm stealing from was a responsible person who has used up all the ink themselves, and so I find myself whipping out a pen to sign something and having that signature die halfway through. Then I have to trace over the faded part of the signature with another pen and now the thing just looks retarded.


I would like an inexpensive pen that can write upright. Take any cheap pen and try writing with it facing anywhere but downward. What happens? The goddamn ink dries up. Then you have to shake the pen, find a piece of scratch paper, and make circles until the ink reappears. I hate this process. Why do we even have pens? Shouldn't we only be using digital styluses? WE ARE KILLING NATURE.


When driving, do you ever look over at the car you are passing and notice that THEY WILL ALWAYS LOOK BACK AT YOU. What is that? The only time this doesn't happen is when that person is on a phone call.


I know. It's terrifying, isn't it? And they always look at you like you've just spied on them while they were burying a dead body. I expect half their face to be zombified when they turn their head. "What the fuck are YOU looking at, buddy?" I don't know! I was just looking around, man!


At some point in our lives, we were all told, by our parents or thru the grapevine, that if we continually beat our meat, we would grow hair on our palms. As a budding scientific mind, I deduced that somehow, semen + skin = hair. At the mere age of 12 (early bloomer, nice) I thought I had discovered the cure for baldness. I would not sit on the sidelines and let innocent bald men suffer any longer! Unfortunately, my father stepped in and prevented me from secretly curing my uncle's baldness with some cutting-edge home-made scientific ingenuity.


It's almost a shame that semen doesn't grow hair. Imagine if it did. You'd see bald guys rubbing jizz on their heads all day long. All my socks would become furry. You could rub your jizz on the wall and have a shag wall! Makeup artists would touch up actors with skeet to give them the right period hairstyle. The world would be a fucking BLAST.


Here's a good license plate for you. Driver was female.


Aw, she sounds fun!


Would you rather be behind a bus while driving or have people biking next to you?


Two people biking? Oh, that's death. I'll take the bus. Bad enough to have one biker fucking with the road. But those amateur pelotons that spring up on weekends? Those need to be fucking bulldozed. I'm perfectly okay with one biker who is clearly trying to stay flush with the shoulder. I get it. He's trying to share the road. But then you get these fuckheads who take up a whole goddamn LANE. Or they'll just swerve next to the shoulder and then away from it in a seemingly random fashion. Do you want me to kill you, fuckhead? Because I will. I so will.

Though I do hate getting stuck behind a bus that's picking people up just as a light ahead is turning red. YOU FUCK! I LOST 45 SECONDS! LEAVE THAT BITCH ON THE CURB!


I also hate bus drivers who block the box. Buses always do this. You get to a crowded intersection. You know full well the light is going to turn green for you. But the bus with the turn arrow on the other side of the intersection will go into the turn and block the fucking box just as the light turns green. And then no one fucking moves because BUS FUCK ASSHOLE had to jam himself in there. Bus drivers are scum.


I was wondering, should seeing skid marks in your girlfriend's underwear be a turn off?


Yeah, but you'll still sleep with her. Poop happens. And now a GREAT MOMENT IN FART HISTORY.


In college I was taking an Econ midterm, along with 80 or so of my classmates in a dead silent classroom. I felt an un-ignorable fart coming that I thought I could ease out silently and continue taking the exam. The chairs are the desk/chair combo type with a wooden armrest on the right with half a desk that you can write on.

I split my weight between the armrest and my right cheek on the seat and lean ever so slightly so that my cheeks spread a little and I try to let it shoosh out without pushing. It did no such thing. It rattled through my sphincter and reverberated right off the seat and probably couldn't have been louder had I planned it.

I was sitting in the middle from the front and one row in from the left and everyone looked up, the profesor looked up, the people on the far side of the room looked up, the people in front of me turned around, the people to either side of me looked my way, everyone in the whole class paused from their exam and looked in my general direction. Everyone except me. I carry on with my test, careful to keep my weight where it was and not give anything away by leaning back onto my other cheek, and doing my best to stifle a laugh. This lasts for about two seconds, until the one dude sitting to my left is just looking at me starts cracking up. I can't contain myself and start laughing and of course no one else in the room thinks it's funny, including the professor who I think held it against me when it came time to turn in our grades.

That, or I wasn't very good at Economics.

Probably both.

Click to view

Share This Story