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Fun With Composting Old Rubbers!

Illustration for article titled Fun With Composting Old Rubbers!
FunbagTime for your weekly edition of the Deadspin Funbag. Got something on your mind? Email the Funbag.

All right all right, time to open up the ol' sack of goodies and see what's spurtin' out. Your letters:

Dr. J:

So I recently put in a raised garden in my backyard and decided to start a compost bin. I was researching online for what was compostable and came across this fact: Latex is a natural biodegradable material and can be composted. Therefore, it said that used condoms could be put in the compost bin. This raises a few questions. Should I try this and see if my "seed" will create a yield of super prize-winning vegetables, or is this just too weird? Also, if I do this, should I tell others about my secret formula and if so, should I mention it before or after they taste the harvest?


Oh, I think you have to do it. No question. Imagine tossing your manbutter in that compost bin and seeing a fucking giant beanstalk erupt out of the heap. I'd be so proud. I'd show it off to everyone. Look at these beans! They're so virile! My sperm gives life to the earth!

I've been curious about composting for a while. Not because I care about nature or anything. Nature can eat hog. I'm just interested in the idea of throwing shit into a pile and letting it sit there. It appeals to the lazy person in me. When I was single and had an apartment in New York, I never cleaned the place. Ever. It was repulsive. If I used a dish, that dish didn't get cleaned for months. I used every last dish in the cabinet before even considering washing the dishes (I had no dishwasher). And when there were no dishes, I'd eat off a dirty plate or one of the many bar towels I stole from pubs across the UK. You haven't lived until you've eaten chicken off a bar towel.

When you leave dirty dishes in a sink that long, bad things happen. I'd go to start washing the dishes and a thick blue mold had grown over every dish in the pile. The whole kitchen smelled like Stilton. It was disgusting, and yet I was oddly proud that I was filthy enough to leave that sort of unholy nastiness in my sink. It made me feel like Nikki Sixx.

So that's why I'm interested in composting. I'd be totally jazzed to throw a bunch of used condoms in a pile and see what happens to it over time. Then someone could ask me what the pile was in the backyard and I could say, "Oh that? That my jizz pile. BECAUSE I LOVE THE ENVIRONMENT." But really, I'm just thrilled by the idea of rotting jizz in my backyard. That would be way cool.

When I was a kid, I didn't know anything about botany (still don't), so I'd conduct grand experiments in potential plant growth. I'd put a donut in a glass of juice and leave it on my windowsill for a week. I'd jack it into a Dixie Cup and then keep it under my bed for a month or two. Then I'd go to check and see if anything had grown, assuming my sperm had produced some kind of giant hydra monster. Instead all I found was a Dixie cup with a dried out skeet stain on it. This is why I don't garden. Ever.


Whenever I see a list of names of people that are being recognized or honored for something, I always immediately search for my name. If my local paper contains a list of recent MBA graduates, for example, I will check for my name even though I did not participate in said program. I also will search for my name on a list of people honored on a plaque for making the new hospital wing possible. I am not a rich person. Is this normal behavior, or am I suffering from delusions of grandeur? Thanks.


I certainly do it. I don't know that it makes it more normal that I do it as well. Probably not. But yeah, any time I visit a museum or open up an issue of Playbill at some Broadway show or something, I'll always check for my name in the FRIENDS OF THE PROGRAM section. My name is never there, so then I'll scan around for names of famous people. I always get excited to see a famous person's name on some stupid donor wall. OOH! GEORGE CLOONEY! I KNOW HIM!

Also, if I'm at any event where an award of some kind is announced, I always anticipate my name being called. When I was at my college graduation and they were giving out some stupid award like Best Feminist Studies major or whatever the fuck, I always pictured them calling my name. Even if I didn't major in that (and I didn't). Even if they had clearly informed the winner in advance, so that they could prepare a written speech. No matter. If I'm at a work conference and they're about to honor some fucking retiree, you can bet I'll be thinking that I am that retiree when I'm clearly not.


I also check for my name in SI's FACES IN THE CROWD section. I do not play organized sports. But hey, you never know.


I've farted every single morning since I can remember. It doesn't matter if its beer farts, mexican farts, salad farts, or steamed dumpling farts. Once my eyes open and I approach the bathroom in a groggy daze you can be sure there's some wind ready to be circulated.


Yeah, the morning fart appears to be as natural a biological function as the morning boner. And it doesn't even sound like a regular fart. I get up in the morning and go to piss and the gas that been trapped inside my ass all during sleep goes running out of my asshole like it's trying to catch a train. I don't even have to push it out. It just leaves. Sounds like a foghorn. BRAAAAAAAAANG! And my wife will sit up and be like, "What the fuck is that noise?" Because it takes a second to process that the sound is a morning fart, and not a standard issue fart.

I wake up now and I make noises that inspire absolute fear in anyone who hears them. The farting. The cracking. The snarfing. The grunting while pissing. Unnnghhhhh! The older you get, the more odd noises you make. Take it from anyone who's ever had to split a hospital room with an old person. Old people make some sounds only dogs should be able to fucking hear. "Was that a canasta? What the fuck is going on the other side of that sheet?"



Ate her beaver? Or 8 hour beaver?

Either way I'd love to shake this man's hand, and then immediately wash mine.

Illustration for article titled Fun With Composting Old Rubbers!

Gotta be ATE HER BEAVER. Although, who wouldn't want an 8-hour beaver? You get your beaver for the bulk of the night, and then the beaver is gone by morning. Surely, this could be invented. Or raised on a farm of some kind.


I'm a cop and I work the swing shift which puts me home at 3 am. I get up around noon and always make myself bacon and eggs for breakfast. The smell of frying bacon understandably and awesomely drives my family nuts. They have rebelled and begun demanding one piece of bacon each as a smell-tax. Though I believe their request reasonable – that's FOUR pieces of my bacon. Am I justified in kung-fuing their advances and taking my bacon back to my room and locking my door?


You are. You're a cop. You bust your ass all day and throw yourself in harm's way. Or, if the "The Wire" is accurate, and it is, you sit there and file pawn shop items all day. Either way, surely you deserve bacon as the reward for your toil. And these interlopers, who are NOT cops, and did NOT fry up that bacon on their own, now want to bogart some of your strips? That's some heavy bullshit.

Now, some readers may tell you to make more bacon. Sounds like an easy solution, right? WRONG. The average skillet can accommodate, I would say at most, six strips of bacon or so. That's without overlapping, or folding up strips which means they don't cook evenly. (NOTE: You can also cook bacon in the microwave, but that just makes the smell even more prevalent in the house, AND cooking bacon in the microwave blows because it seems to take forever and because you can't watch it curl up as easily.) So to make more bacon than that, you gotta fry up separate batches. And you shouldn't have to do that just because these fuckers are STEALING from you. Fuck that.


I always fry up extra bacon for my family, but you know what? It's never enough. They always want more that what you've allotted them. You make a bonus piece for them, they want two. You start making two, they want three. YOU PRICKS. TAKE WHAT I MAKE YOU AND BE HAPPY WITH IT.

I get extremely pissed when someone goes overboard in sharing my food. You want a bite? Fine. You want half? GET FUCKED. The other day, I was eating a plate of eggs and my wife picked off some to give the one-year-old. Fine. No problem. He eats it, I'm happy. Then I'm eating some more and my wife's hand intrudes again. And again. And fucking again. Eventually, I put my fork down and said ENOUGH. This isn't fun for me. It isn't fun for me to eat my meal with your hand interrupting every seven goddamn seconds. Take some extra, and put it on a separate plate. Don't pick at my shit. Then later that night, we're eating pizza and the wife asks for crust to give to the kid. So I give the kid my crust. Then she asks for extra cheese to give the kid. So I give the kid some cheese. Then she asks for more cheese and I'm like WHAT THE FUCK IS LEFT FOR ME? It's pizza. Crust and cheese are all it consists of. Give the kid a fucking whole slice of his own and leave my plate alone. Sharing has its limits.


My kids are very young now, but I'm already dreading the day when they really start eating all of my fucking food. Because that's what I did as a kid. My mom would go to the store and buy a pound of ham for the week. It would be gone an hour after she brought it home. I ate every fucking thing. If you didn't get any? Tough shit. Fat Drew needed ham. And now, karma is about to pay my ass back. These kids are gonna at all my goddamn ham. I'm gonna buy my own fridge and put it in a fucking vault.



I was riding the #2 bus home about a month ago from the University of Minnesota to Uptown. One stop after I got on, a guy got on that I immediately recognized. Now, I don't know this person "technically" and he doesn't know me...BUT, I worked with his sister and mom a few years back and, thanks to digital cameras and cell phone pictures, I know who this guy is. I know his name and I know some (very) general things about him. Again, the guy has no idea who I am.

I spent the next twenty minutes on the bus trying to grow balls so I could approach him on the bus and act like some sort of prophet or time traveler from the future. Maybe I would tell him something very cryptic like:

"Listen to me Tom. I don't have much time so I can only say this once—your sister Anita sent me back in time from the future to warn you about the events of July 18, 2019. That morning, you will be approached by a man in a suit. Whatever you do, YOU MUST SAY TO HIM: 'The parrot crows at twelve o'clock'...if you don't the results of your actions will be disastrous."

Upon saying this I would get off at the next stop (regardless of where it is, and grab the next bus).

Did I drop the ball here?

No. Listen, doing that sort of thing always sounds fun, but I'd never have the sack to go through with it. Just going up to any stranger and talking is intimidating enough. But what you're suggesting is actual acting. Going up to him and being convincing enough to fuck with his brain. You have to have your lines down and keep your composure and everything. That's not easy to pull off, which is why you didn't do it. Now, if you had been DRUNK, you easily could have made that happen. So I suggest, from now on, you always ride the bus drunk.


It's odd seeing people you vaguely know in any kind of public space. Someone walks by and you think it's someone you know, but you have to get closer to verify. Only you don't want to be detected, lest you get caught leering at this person and taken for a serial killer. That's a horrible feeling. And now that Facebook is around, everyone is getting to know more people and see more faces. Think about it. Back in your parents' day, you only saw faces live in person, in print, or on a television set. Now, in the Internet age, you can get to know thousands of faces in a single day if you want. It's a much bigger mental databank that what your folks had, which means you're that much more likely to get on a bus with some asshole you vaguely know, think about fucking with him, and then pussying out at the last minute. I don't know if that's a good thing or not.

This will sound odd, given what I do for a living, but I hate the idea of making people uncomfortable. I don't really like playing practical jokes. I hate watching shitty old shows like Punk'd or Candid Camera, where someone gets fucked with for five minutes. I don't have the stomach to go up and willfully annoy people like that (unless I'm drunk). I'd much rather leave them alone and let them go about their business. When I worked in advertising, I had to do a lot of street team type shit. Like going out on the street and handing out free candy to people (and shouting at everyone walking by to try it), or going out and shooting video of some dude in a Samurai suit walking around town. I hated this. Maybe some people liked free candy (who wouldn't?), but just as many New Yorkers didn't want you coming anywhere fucking near them, and I couldn't blame them. Going up to people cold is just… difficult. Whether you're playing a prank or asking a girl out or trying to sell something. You have to have real balls to do it, or you have to be drunk, or you have to be a shameless whore who will do anything for attention.


Ahab Funderspunk:

I'm sitting in the stands of a college football game behind the uprights. A field goal/PAT is kicked and I wind up catching the ball. Rather than keeping the ball, I stand up and fire it 65 yards on a rope and hit the head coach square in the face. Everyone turns around in amazement. "What the shit was that?!" Post-game, I'm escorted to the locker room where I meet with the coach and he discovers I have one year of eligibility remaining and am immediately offered a full-ride. While I spent my high school and college days as an undersized center, I was secretly honing my quarterback skills and breaking down film. God himself couldn't read defenses as fast as me.

At 26, I start at QB for one season, win the Heisman and go on to a HOF career in the NFL.

I'm still holding out for my moment.

As well you should, good sir. The other day, I was playing football with my kid when I let go of a decent spiral and I thought to myself, Damn. That was actually an okay throw. Much better than my usual pussy throws. Perhaps I'm just a late bloomer. Perhaps this weight I've recently lost has unveiled a gifted inner athlete in me that I never knew was there. I then immediately pictured going to an open tryout for the Vikings and dazzling scouts (and myself) with my preternatural poise and uncanny arm strength. Then I pictured getting fired by the team for sending cell phone cockshots to Jenn Sterger.


It's important you get these moments in now, because you will soon reach an age where there's no point in dreaming about being a star athlete. Reality sets in, even in your wildest fantasies. For example, I'm 33. I used to dream all the time about being a Heisman winning QB. But that's pointless now. I went to college already. I'm too old. I only have pro dreams left. And I can't dream about being homecoming king, the way I did in middle school. That would be fucking dumb now. So get in all those age-restricted fantasies while you can. I've already begun the transition to coaching fantasies instead of playing fantasies.


Have you ever been in a private bathroom and NOT made a funny face in the mirror? It really takes all my will power to not do it when I'm in a public bathroom...It's even harder than not looking at the guy's dick next to me.


Nope. Never. If there's a bathroom mirror all to myself, I am milking that fucker for all it's worth. I like to get super up-close and look at my facial stubble. LOOK AT THAT! IT'S SO COARSE! I look at my teeth. I look at my nose. I look at my scalp through my hair. I recite entire swaths of film dialogue. I talk to imaginary people. I do it all. That mirror gets a full workout. Why else would it be there? Even in a public bathroom. I use that mirror until the door swings open and some random asshole strolls in. Then I get out of there as fast as possible.

Any time I go to a hotel now, virtually every room has a giant full length mirror on a wall near the door. I always give myself a once over in those things. How does my ass look when I clench it? Oh, that's not good. Not good AT ALL.


Big Lebowski:

My wife is currently pregnant with our second child. Like a good husband, I attend every doctor's appointment with her that I can. But man, does it get boring. The old ball and chain was angry with me for taking this picture and texting it to friends and family, but I say with all the plastic vaginas around, I could have done much worse. She's lucky I just used my finger.

Illustration for article titled Fun With Composting Old Rubbers!

Indeed. Man, that is one small vagina. Or one fat finger. I can't tell which. Probably both.


Going to those doctor appointments with the pregnant woman are always boring as shit. They send you to the ultrasound room and you sit there for ages. My wife can sit there patiently, but I can't. I play with every fucking thing laying around in there, even the ultrasound machine. SAY, WHAT DOES THIS BUTTON DO? Then the wife tells me to stop and I do, then I start doing it again minutes later without even thinking about it.

If you have kids, you have to take them to the pediatrician roughly 7,000 times a year, and the wife will always give you puppy dog eyes if you can't go with to one of the appointments. "Really? You're not going to come with us as the nurse gives our child his MMR shot? WHAT KIND OF COLDHEARTED FUCK ARE YOU?!" Also, when you go to a kid doctor, the kid doctor will inevitably have a much better rapport with your child than you do. They know how to make them laugh and giggle, and they can do all kinds of crazy magic tricks and shit. They always make you feel inadequate as a parent. Why don't YOU just take the child, doc? You clearly know what you're doing far more than I do.




My wife took the kids on a three-week vacation with my mother-in-law. I am now on Day 17 of being "Home Alone". Below I will enumerate my vast list of transgressions. Suffice it to say, in the past, even when she and kids have been gone for more than two hours, I've managed to trash the house within twenty minutes; imagine three weeks of debauchery. While having a high degree of independence for the first few days is a novelty, I am now feeling absolutely helpless to control my behavior. Here's what I've "accomplished" in 17 days; four days to go:

1. Consumed approximately 6 gallons of Highland Park 12 year old Scotch (at $28 per 750/ml)

2. Slept in the backyard (twice)

3. Have been late to work at least six times and called in "sick" twice

4. Racked up $225 worth of soft-core porn bills on DirecTV

5. Have eaten nothing but Cap'n Crunch, tortilla chips with white cheese dip, and fish sticks

6. Forgot to feed the dog for several days at a time

7. Have used, and not cleaned, every single clean dish in the house (the kitchen is starting to smell pretty fucking bad)

8. Have not showered for several days in a row (I started to smell pretty fucking bad)

9. Backed over the neighbors' mailbox

10. Burned a cigarette hole in our leather couch

11. Threw a Wii controller in a fit of rage and punched a hole in the drywall of our den

12. Bought a motorcycle

13. Destroyed the toilet in our third bathroom

14. Broke the big toe on my left foot

15. Left drunken voicemails for my wife and not doubt provoked incessant worrying on her part

At 38, it's clear that I cannot be left to my own devices. I think I need a babysitter.


Don't we all, my friend. Don't we all. What kind of wife goes away for three weeks with the kids? More importantly, how can our readers find more of such brides?