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The attached picture has a midget. On the Bills sideline. Dressed like a coach! For me, it was the highlight of the game. I asked the Bills fans around me if they knew anything about this guy, but everyone was too busy laughing/being amazed.


I've done extensive research to try and find out who this man is, and by "extensive research," I mean Googling "bills midget coach" and "bills dwarf coach." I found nothing. Nor can I find any traces of midgetdom on the Bills home page. And so this is a matter for the Deadspin I-team. Your assignment: Find this dwarf. And then, bring him to ME. Actually, don't bring him to me. A simple ID will do. By the way, I love that guy. I'd like football coaches a million times more if they were all dwarfs. Tell me you wouldn't want to have beers with Coach Smalls after battling it out for four quarters. You know damn well that guy busted his ass to get on that sideline.

UPDATE: Reader Jen knows: "I used to intern for the Bills, so I knew who you were talking about as soon as I saw the headline. His name is Chris Fischetti, and he's the assistant trainer. Here's their front office listing, under Athletic Trainers. He was among those honored by the NFL for taking care of Kevin Everett." That is awesome. I bet everyone calls him FISH.



Plot to the most insufferable Horatio Alger story ever.


Christ, it's like the worst Facebook status ever brought to life.


Why do my 2 kids feel the need to walk all over me whenever I lower my body anywhere near the floor? Every night after I get home I crouch down to give them hugs. Within 2 minutes both boys (one 17 months old and the other is almost 3 years old) somehow are standing on my legs and then systematically work their way up. Eventually one of them is crushing my nuts with his foot and the other is climbing over my shoulder trying to bite me. By the end of it I am laying on the floor and they are fighting about who is going to sit on my back and jump up and down. Why can't they just give me high fives and then go about their business?


My personal favorite is when I get down on all fours to pick something up, and both kids immediately take that as a cue to step onto my Achilles. That's always the first place they step to get in the saddle. Oh, look! There's Daddy's Achilles! It's springy! I like getting down and horsing around with my kids, but there's never been a horsing around episode in history that has ended without someone crying. NEVER. The kids horse around with you until they accidentally get an elbow in the mouth or they rake each other across the face. That's just how you end a play session. There's no peaceful solution. You play until the crying starts. It's a shame, because I like roughhousing with children. Actually, I like roughhousing with just about anyone. If you got me drunk and offered to wrestle me, I'd gladly accept. I don't even care if it makes me gay. Horsing around is way fun.

Kids will never just leave you be. Sometimes I'll be in the room and I'll need to lie down and I can never just lie there in peace and quiet. Either the kid will immediately leave the room, forcing me to get up, or they'll want to play in the exact spot where I just made myself comfortable. They also pull blankets right off of you without any hesitation. They don't tell you that in the parenting manuals. They don't say, "WARNING: The little fuckers steal blankets." But they do! And then they don't even use them! They just run around the room and knock shit over with them. They are bastards.



Conversing from the tub tonight, I asked my wife, "If we could trade parts for a day, would you do it?"

"Totally," she replied. "I'd wack off all day."

"I'd stick stuff up there," I offered. "Dildo. Strawberries."

/sipping an exotic drink with the wifey

So, Drew…Would you? You totally would. What would you do with a 24-hour vajayjay?


I'd give it a whirl, but there's no way I'd put anything in it. I'd be afraid to even touch it, frankly. I don't know where my fingers have been. Probably up my butt. It would be just my luck to test drive a vagina for a day and instantly give said vagina poison ivy. If I was a girl, I'd be afraid of getting poison ivy inside my pussy every waking hour.

Anyway, I'd still try out the vag for a day to answer any and all nagging questions I had about the female reproductive system. For instance, would having an orgasm as a female feel better than having one as a male? I've heard plenty of ladies toot this myth, that women have better orgasms. I'd love to find out the truth. I bet it's bullshit. Although I'd be mildly terrified that it really would feel better as a woman, and then I wouldn't want to trade back for my penis. Then I'd become all gender confused. I don't want THAT happening. I just want the thundersquirt.


One thing I know, if I switch sex organs for a day, there's no way I'm letting someone else use my penis ON ME. I know that penis' history. It's terrifying. I want nothing to do with it.

Mr. Lew:

Am I the only one who manages to get caught up in bouts of masturbation that literally last HOURS? The other day I honestly had 2 hours of straight stroking. I was kinda proud of myself for lasting so long.


Don't be. Remember: our own Cockeye Jones nearly destroyed his life and his private parts by holding marathon jerk sessions. If you aren't jerking off efficiently, you risk chafing, tearing, and numerous penile abrasions. When I help myself to myself, I try and get in and out of there as fast as possible. BANG BANG! I have officially reached the point in my life where my own libido is strictly a pain in the ass. It keeps me from doing important things, like watching YouTube videos of skateboarders being injured. Any time I hold a jerk too long, I become openly annoyed at myself for wasting time. I'm my own Jewish girlfriend. "Can we please hurry this along?"


So don't jerk your life away. Look at Charlie Sheen. That guy smokes crack and watches porn for three hours at a clip. Does he seem well balanced to you? Actually, he's filthy rich and gets to have sex with porn stars any time he likes. Poor example.


I saw this in a parking garage in Queens a few hours ago. Apparently the Viberider is a real thing. I would have thought that simply sitting on a motorcycle while its engine was running would be enough for most ladies out there.


Not if your gal is from Queens, it isn't. You need a little more to get their toughened vaginas kickstarted.



Are you the type of person that slows down when he sees flashing lights up ahead on the highway?


I slow down to the speed limit any time I see a cop ahead, even if that cop has already pulled someone over. I know that's completely stupid, since the cop is already occupied, but I always think that I'll pass by the cop just as he's finished writing up that ticket. And then he'll see me whizzing by 75 and he'll be like, DOUBLE DIP MOTHERFUCKER! Because you never know. So I apologize in advance to everyone driving behind me. I am, indeed, that prick.

Here in Maryland, they have giant digital signs above the highway that alert you in the case of an accident or congestion ahead. The problem with these signs is that they often have nothing to say. They'll often say REPORT SUSPICIOUS ACTIVITY or something totally fucking useless, but because they're lit up, people ahead will slow down to read them, causing massive jams. I want these signs blown up with a fucking surface-to-air missile. They contribute NOTHING to society.


Also, apropos of nothing, I've driven to New York from where I live many times. When you drive into Manhattan from points south, you usually take either the Lincoln Tunnel or Holland Tunnel to get in. But you have to check the radio to make sure the tunnels aren't completely fucked. Traffic reports happen on the 10's on one station and on the 8's on another. I cannot tell you how many times I've approached the city, realized I needed to check traffic, and seen that it's only 2:11 or 3:41 or some other minute as far away from the 10's and 8's as mathematically possible. Then I have to sit there for fucking seven minutes praying I get the report before the first tunnel exit. I have poor timing. 1010 LOSES.


When I was in high school back in 2005, I was eating breakfast when all of a sudden 3 horses started running around my yard. They started in the front and worked their way to the back yard. Two full grown and one baby. We live in a somewhat country area, but nothing like Nebraska (I'm from South Jersey). Well, we called the guy who owns them, Judd, who lived down the street. He came out with his friend and a lasso. Mom wanted me to go to school but hell fucking no am I missing this. I had the pleasure of watching Judd and his buddy lasso 3 horses all while eating my Cocoa Puffs. Best non-sexual morning ever?


I could see that. I'm the kind of person who still goes bonkers any time he passes a field of horses or cows on the side of the road. OOOH, LOOGIT! HORSIES! EVERYONE, THERE ARE HORSIES THERE! Watch them run! Are they not the most graceful creatures you've ever seen? Affirmed.


Today I was given an office card for the head boss of my firm. I have no problems with signing office cards, but it was completely empty, and I had to be the first one to mark it down. I freaked out - "should I put a note in? Is it insensitive to just put my name in there? Ah, fuck everyone's going to see what I wrote!" Do you ever have this feeling? I hate being the first one to set the standard on office cards - much easier and more guilt-free to sign your name on the good luck card to the recently shitcanned secretary when everyone did the same thing, thus validating your apathy towards her. It's like this for any type of office card. Am I the only one?


Of course not. You shouldn't have been obligated to sign the card first. The person purchasing the card should be the one to break the seal. Not you. If that ever happens again, be sure to sign your name somewhere in a random corner and allow everyone AFTER you to fill in the center. And never leave a message, ever. Anything you say will come out stilted and awkward. It's like trying to sign your name in someone's yearbook. Yearbook messages are extraordinarily painful to try and read. Unless some hot girl wrote her phone number in your yearbook and added that her summer waitressing shift ended at midnight every night, there's nothing about a yearbook message that will make you feel good about yourself.



Some friends and I have been in a heated discussion about how much ESPN pays Hank Williams Jr. to do the Monday Night Football song each year. I say that it has to be a ridiculous amount because Hank and his agent probably pull the bullshit tradition thing and how ESPN couldn't do the song with any other over-the-hill country singer, but my friends disagree saying they can't imagine him making that much money to lipsync 16 times a year. Thoughts?


Well, Hank probably gets paid in two ways. First off, he wrote the song. And he didn't write it originally for MNF. It was called "All My Rowdy Friends Are Coming Over Tonight" and it was a top ten hit before ABC had him rework it for football. So he probably gets a royalty check from licensing the song. Then he gets paid a separate amount to perform the opening for the telecast, and presumably to change the lyrics depending upon the matchup or whatever. I dunno. I can't stand listening to that fucking thing. Anyway, I assume his takeaway from all of it is somewhere in the hundreds of thousands of dollars annually, and that's not even factoring in the priceless exposure he gets from being on the show every year. And all of that is from one song, one song that isn't even good. Unreal.


Is it just me or does this seem poorly worded?




Do girls know exactly how much cleavage they're displaying at all times? I ask because of this scenario: I go to a barbershop once a month and have the same girl cut my hair every time because she does a good job. The last few times I've been there, she's been sporting some maddening cleavage. So, when I'm at the cash register to pay before I leave, I hand her cash and she does this seemingly unnecessary step backwards/forward lean and appears to be trying to see something in the back of the cash drawer. Is she doing this unknowingly and she really is trying to get a better look at something? Or is she just doing it to be flirty and let me get a good stare at them?

I like to think that she's rewarding me for being a loyal customer.

I think it depends on the girl. I think most girls know precisely how what they wear will impact men around them. But once in a while, you get one of those women who doesn't understand a goddamn thing about men, and will be legitimately shocked that someone would stare at her when she goes walking outside in a plunging v-neck and two sweater cannons blazing out of her chest. "They were looking at my boobs! Ewwwwwww! It's like they wanted to have sex with me or something!" Avoid women like this, and avoid any woman who PRETENDS to be naïve about such things. She's clearly just desperate for attention. Everyone knows phony ditzes, girls who act like ditzes even though they clearly don't have to act that way. Other girls HATE girls like this, and for good reason. OMIGOD WHY DO ALL THESE GUYS KEEP HITTING ON ME?! GOD!!



How did you land this ragtag modeling gig Drew? You're all over the streets of New York. I guess they figured your girth would resonate with the lottery commission's typical clientele.


Jesus, that really does look like me. That's the least imposing Vampire hunter in history right there.


Royals Season Ticket Holder:

How do the zombies decide who to eat entirely and who to just bite in order to infect them? I mean, there are always a shitload of zombies in every movie, so most of them just have to bite to pass on the infection, right?


I can't imagine that zombies distinguish between biting people to infect them and biting people just to eat them. I think that's a plot hole of pretty much every zombie movie. Because what usually happens when a human is surrounded by zombies in those movies? They get devoured until there nothing but entrails left (which I guess could then wriggle along indefinitely). Yet there are still huge number of intact zombies walking around. The only way to explain it is that zombies get full. In other words, they stop eating when they feel like they've had enough guts at one particular sitting. But you never see that! You never see a zombie turn down innards. So for the next season of the "Walking Dead," they need to show a zombie leaving his plate full for once. Also, I'd like to see the brunette naked. She's a charmer.


My grandfather has a large record collection including this:

What do you think the manliest album cover ever is? This one has to get my vote.

Agreed. Man, I'd love to show up a wolf like that. Oh, think you scare me, wolf? Well, guess what. I ALSO have wolves. I don't even need this rifle, I'm so ready to own your shit. Also a candidate for manliest album cover…



I find it impossible not to un-bend paper clips every time I pick one up unless I am actually using it to fasten paper together. It's not even something I'm consciously aware of. I absent-mindedly destroy at least 10-15 paper clips every day while talking on the phone at work. Is this normal?


Of course. I also liked taking apart pens and then putting them back together again. I've also found that, once I undo a paper clip, I can NEVER get it back to its original shape. Once you pull that first part of the paper clip out, it's ruined forever. They're incredibly delicate objects. Whenever I try and bend it back into place, it looks like a paper clip drawn by a retarded kindergartener.


I was walking to a Chipotle down the block from my university a couple of weeks ago when I saw a couple of girls wearing Northeastern Soccer warmups walking in. I realized they would get to the counter before me, which wouldn't have been a problem until I saw another 30 girls suddenly turn the corner. At this point I broke into a sprint because, fuck me, I am not going to wait behind 30 people for a burrito. They pointed and laughed and made my burrito ordering uncomfortable. It remains one of my proudest moments of food devotion.


The grocery store I go to is located right near a very large local high school. And at 11AM every weekday, those kids have a short lunch break. Many of them head over to the grocery tore to grab something to eat, and many times I've accidentally gone to the store when this flood of retardation happens. I'm pulling into the parking lot when I see this fucking parade of mouthbreathers heading for the store and suddenly alarms start going off in my brain. SHITHEADS! SHITHEADS! WHY DIDN'T I REMEMBER IT WAS THEIR BREAK? GAHHHHH! And trying to shop for groceries with these morons standing around the store, chatting with each other and trying to decide what bag of chips to buy makes me want to crush their skulls with a bag full of fucking hammers. It's agony, so many times I'll sprint into the store and buy only the essential items, or I'll just skip the trip entirely. Teenagers are fucking horrible.


I came across this one at a Central Market in Houston. It's as strange of a tag as I've ever seen, complete with the "Happiness in biting my parrot back" tag-holder. I mean, this *has* to be someone getting over the DMV here, right?


I can't even begin to fathom the parrot line. As for the plate itself, I think it's awesome. It makes me think there's a stray vagina on the side of the road. OH MY GOD! THERE'S A CUNT! AND IT'S RIDING A HORSIE!


Time for your email of the week. Jason, come get your goods.

My office had a party tonight right after work, which meant I had to both work through lunch and skip dinner to get there on time. After spending five hours mainlining free Stoli, I realize on the drive home that I'm starving. There's a Taco Bell right around the corner from my place, and I make good decisions in all areas of my life.

After ordering what can only be generously described as a fatass amount of food, the girl at the window leans out, hands me my food and says: "The lady before you ordered two Chalupas and drove off. Do you want them for free?"

Do I want them? Of course I don't. I spent the whole night feeling like the Underdog balloon stuffed into a suit, and regretting every Reese's I've ever eaten. Do I take them? Of course I do. My roommate was home. I could've given him the bonus Chalupas and gone about my business. But fuck that guy. He didn't go to the effort of drunk-running the drive-through.

Roughly 14 seconds after I finished the second Chalupa, I was filled with the kind of regret that usually only comes with looking at your 5 a.m. ATM receipt from the strip club. I'm currently living in mortal terror of the time I'll be spending on the can tomorrow. I feel like the Germans would have a word for the kind of dread that only imminent vaguely-burning-yet-somehow-pure-liquid diarrhea can create. This has to be how Socrates felt right after he drank the hemlock, assuming Socrates was a really buzzed and mostly stupid fat guy, right?


True, but no mortal man will ever turn down a free Chalupa.

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