I was backing out of a tight parking spot today and I did that thing where you back up little by little by little until you either A) Have sufficient room to turn out of the space, or B) Tap into the other car by accident. I did the latter today, and man, that always makes me feel like a giant bag of fucking failure. I could not properly judge the distance between myself and the car behind me, and that makes me a loser.
Compounding the embarrassment was the fact that a parking attendant WATCHED me do this from behind the wheel of his vehicle. He saw the whole sequence: me backing out, bumping into the other car while going .00009 mph, and then driving away. I felt his eyes on me as I drove out: staring, judging, ready to terminate. He then followed me, or appeared to follow me, out of the parking lot and down the street. And that made me lose my shit because I thought he was going to arrest me (if parking attendants can do such a thing) for a hit-and-run. I quickly began to picture him pulling me over, slapping the cuffs on me, and then leading me to the station house, all while I'm trying to explain that it was a tap, and not a hit. Who gets out of the car for a tap? Am I the only person who thinks non-damaging taps are an everyday happenstance? I am? Oh, FUCK. I may be half-Vietnamese.
Then the attendant turned into the next lot and I breathed a sigh of relief. He wasn't going to arrest me. I wasn't going to go on trial for being a monster. I sat back and relaxed, and then I remembered: MY PLATES. He easily could have taken down my plate number and reported it back to police headquarters. He easily could have said to dispatch, "Be on the lookout for a shithead in a polo shirt who tapped some car and was too lazy to leave a fucking note." They could be looking up my address right now. They could be coming to my door to haul my ass off to Poundtown as we speak. I'm completely paranoid. I think I may be having a nervous breakdown. All because I lack the ability to back out of a parking spot. So if this mailbag gets cut off halfway through, you'll know it was because they found me.
Onto your letters:
Take a look at the uniforms (above) for the Houston Astros Class-A minor league team Lexington Legends. Aren't they badass and incredibly awful at the same time?
Indeed they are. Few people may know this, but those uniforms count as ACTUAL tuxedoes at any Kentucky formal event. I really hope the Legends also have a white tie version of this uni. I'd give anything to watch a dude slide headfirst into second while wearing tails. Classy.
Something that I can't stop thinking about, at least for the last week or so, has been how I'd rank the different Asian Cuisines. I was wondering how you'd rank them: some, right off the bat are better than others, for example Thai > Japanese in a runaway victory. But the others, well, that's a little more murky.
Why would Thai beat Japanese food in a runaway victory? That's some heavy bullshit, unless you're some redneck who turns his nose up at sushi. DURRR IT'S RAW FISH IT'S GROSS DURRRRRRR. I'm not saying Thai food is shit. I love Thai food. But if it's between never having sushi again and never having pad thai again (yet having access to any number of delicious Vietnamese or Malaysian dishes that can be quite similar to Thai food), I'm sorry, Sucky Sucky. You don't have a chance. I'm going with the sushi and the tempura and the fried pork steak every time.
Trying to rank these cuisines is a real bitch. I love them all with every fiber of my being. But fuck it, I'll give it a whirl.
8. Burmese/Laotian/Cambodian/Guamish (?)
This blows, because I have no clue what I'm gonna be in the mood for from one day to the next. Some days, I really really really would like to have Indian food. Other days, such as when I'm suffering from diarrhea from having too much Indian food the night before, not as much. The other day I watched a Tony Burdain episode where he went to India, and I dunno about you, but if I see one kind of food shown on TV one night, I immediately crave that food like a fucking meth addict.
Do you remember your first ever wet dream? I remember mine and even the details of the dream. I was about 12 years and The Bangles were all the rage with Walk Like An Egyptian. I was completely IN LOVE with Susanna Hoffs. My wet dream consisted of me being The Bangles Manager and traveling with the group all the time. Me and Susanna would be together on the bus and then it happened: My first Dream blow job. I woke up and thought it was amazing. I wish to this day that I can relive that first wet dream experience.
I'll be honest. I'm not sure I've ever had an actual wet dream, where you wake up covered in your own skeet. I think I masturbate so often that, at the end of the day, my penis is like, "No, I've had just about enough, thank you. No bonus dream jizzing for you." I remember the first time I claimed to have a wet dream, I was lying about it. They had just taught us about wet dreams in school (every guy in class wanted to take a nap immediately after we learned about it), and I came home, ran upstairs, and boned my sheets in the usual fashion. When I was a kid, I always blasted all over my sheets and would just leave the skeet there to dry, which is horrible and disgusting. So, once I learned about nocturnal emissions, I realized I had a good excuse in case my folks thought I was purposely defiling the linens, which I was.
So I went downstairs the next morning to have breakfast before school, and one of my folks asked me how I slept. And then, I announced to the entire table, "Not good. I think I had a wet dream." And that was pretty much the end of my family eating breakfast together on a daily basis. My old man sat me down for the customary awkward sex talk that evening ("You're going to be noticing a lot of changes in your body."), and then it was never mentioned again.
But I didn't have a wet dream that night. I had blatantly lied about it. And I don't think I ever had one after that happened. Oh, how I would LOVE to have the occasional wet dream. It's a small price to pay for a soiled comforter. I remember when Queensryche hit the charts with "Silent Lucidity," and I read that it was about dream control, and I got all excited because I thought I could program myself to have blazing hot wet dreams every night. I did not succeed.
Saw this while working the NASCAR race in NH this weekend
That's great hustle.
Have you ever found yourself in a public toilet/shower/dressing room and noticed a loose ceiling tile or crack in the wall and thought to yourself, "that would be a great spot for a spy camera". Each time I notice one of these CIA peepholes I can't help but to stare right at it and make a funny face or give it the finger. I can just imagine the operator on the other end of the camera going in to a complete panic while destroying all the tapes and calling his superiors that the operation has been compromised. How did he know? What tipped him off?
I also look for potential hidden cameras in any bathroom stall or fitting room, because I know damn well there's some Old Navy manager out there who does NOT have any integrity of any kind. He's just waiting for me to sit down and let out a big growler that will satisfy his disgusting and incurable fecalpheliac fetish. Sick bastard.
If I'm in an elevator alone, I always make a point of looking at the surveillance camera, even waving hi sometimes. If the Rent-a-cop watching me go up to the sixth floor is gonna make me uncomfortable by staring at me, I'm damn well gonna make him uneasy by staring back. Do that the next time you're alone in an elevator. Stare daggers at that fucking camera. Just a real, "How dare you invade my privacy?!" kind of look. Never look away. It'll totally throw that guy off his game.
I frequently get messages on my computer at work that "updates are available". For example, Adobe has added a new program and needs to be installed into my computer. The only problem is, it takes time and I ain't got time. One of the options is to "remind me later" about the update. I figure a reasonable amount of time would be to remind me in about a week. However, their idea of "later" is to remind me about every two minutes.
So, should I just update and get it over with, or should I just say to hell with it and risk not having a new application vital to mine and the company's success?
No. Fuck Adobe. Those people are cunts. Adobe programs (and programs like Turbotax) are like high maintenance girlfriends. Not only do they remind you to update them all the fucking time, but once you've finally relented and updated their shit, you know when the NEXT update comes around for them to nag you about? Fucking two minutes later. Hey Adobe assholes, I have an idea. Why don't you just give me a cumulative update each month, instead of pestering me any time someone changes one undetectable line of fucking code in your program? Dipshits.
I too hate installing updates that could make my computer more secure and efficient. Especially if the update requires me to restart my computer. If it requires a restart, I'll put it off for seven years. I never restart my computer. I have monkey porn videos to look at, brother.
I was in the 5th grade, sitting in class, bored out of my mind, when for some reason I started saving the saliva in my mouth. Every time my body's natural swallow function kicked in, I would slide the spit around so it wouldn't go down my throat.
Then I started sloshing that shit around like it was mouthwash and it produced even more spit. After 10 or 15 minutes I had a mouthful of spit. And that's when the teacher called on me to answer a question. I panicked. I mean, I had put in a lot of time to save up this spit, so I wasn't going to just swallow it. Basically at that point the dam broke and out came the spit onto the floor. Everyone thought I puked so I got sent to the nurse and then got picked up by my mother.
That is the greatest thing ever. I couldn't be prouder of you for spitting it out, because I've been in the same situation and relented by downing the spit in one big gulp. And lemme tell you, when you drink that much saliva all at once, it stops feeling like it's your own. It really does.
It's even worse when a loogie is somehow involved. For example, you cough and suddenly a surprise loogie comes up with it. If you've ever gotten the surprise cough-loogie, you know how disgusting that feels. So you have to spit the fucker out, but let's say you're in a meeting or somewhere where spitting the loogie out in the open can't be done. So you have to KEEP the loogie in your mouth, dashing for the bathroom or a napkin, while all this saliva builds up with it and it becomes with mouthful of horrid loogie juice. The urgency to get that out of your mouth is just fucking brutal. Then you make it to the bathroom and finally spit the loogie out in the sink and it's all green and shit but the blob of spit is so huge you kinda don't want to rinse the sink out. It's terrifying and satisfying all at once.
I find that a surplus of saliva is almost never available when you most need it. Particularly during self-gratification. I've had instances where there's a furious need to masturbate, but not much time to pull it off and no lotion handy, so I have to use spit. But there's none there, so then I have to lightly chew my tongue to really get that natural lube going strong. That's never a fun position to find yourself in.
One other fun thing to do when you're a kid: spit bubbles. Man, when I was in kindergarten, blowing spit bubbles could occupy me for hours. Then I'd look down at my shirt and it would be covered in drool. Then my mom would look at me in unbridled disgust. I was an appealing child. No wonder I run into other people's cars now.
A few years ago I was in a clothing store here in Toronto during the film festival when I saw what looked like a walking, sentient Cheeto. It was Robert Evans. He tapped a sales girl on the shoulder and rasped, "Honey, I'm looking... for white slacks."
And he was already wearing white slacks.
"Baby, Evans doesn't go anywhere without at least seven pairs of freshly pressed white slacks at his disposal. Sexy? YOU BET! Practical? Oh goodness, yes! I can talk with Charles Grodin on the set by morning, squeeze in a round of tennis in the afternoon, fly to Bogota for two kilos at sunset, and retire for a lovely grilled halibut dinner later that night, all without ever having to swap chinos! Try doing that in a pair of Levi's!
"It was Nicholson who turned me on white slacks. I remember I showed up to the Chinatown set one day in black pants, and Nicholson pulled me aside and said to me, ‘Evans, you gotta get rid of those black pants. You'll always bee a heeb from the Upper West Side in those pants.' And he was right! But there was another reason, too! You see, Nicholson has a fondness for seducing the ladies when they're on their "Shining" time of month, if you catch my drift. If Jack ever found a girl who had a strong flow, he said she had an ‘Overlook Elevator.' Anyway, Nicholson loves keeping his white slacks on when he does his business with thee fair lasses, then he saves the pants in a back room! Like trophies! I swear it's true! He showed me the room once and I tell you, it smelled just like a battery plant.
"'How many eggs you got in this coop?' I asked him. He said dozens! Kinky? YOU BET! More impressive than his collection of housemaid fingers? YOU KNOW IT."
A buddy and I were about 13 beers deep watching horse racing in a Vegas sports book when I posed the question, "Would you try and tackle one of those horses if you were in full football gear? Neck brace included. "
I would submarine any horse at any speed given the appropriate protection.
You're gonna need a lot more than garden variety shoulder pads of you want to try and take down a thoroughbred going full speed. Think about it. A horse weighs what, a ton? Two tons? And it's going around 45mph. It will fucking DESTROY you if you try and get in its way, regardless of how well you're padded. If you tried running toward it mid-race, you would get trampled by its hind legs and have your spine snapped in half.
That said, I like the idea of A) trying to ruin a horse's shit during a race, and B) running up and Terry Tating anyone or anything while wearing full pads. For the former, I suggest you foul up a race by getting a horse OF YOUR OWN, buying a lance, and then charging out from the side of the track to fucking crush the poor little Guatemalan jockey sitting up top. Man would I pay to see that.
For the former, I'd love to see someone run out on a baseball field in full football gear and jack up a first baseman. Not only would it be fun, and not only would you protect yourself from the inevitable jump-in from his teammates, but you'd also be making a symbolic point that football is cool, and baseball is weak and gay. I can always get behind that.
Have you ever wondered how many things you've killed in your lifetime? Bugs, animals, whatever. I'm willing to bet that the number is a lot larger than most people think it is.
But how small are you willing to go? What about micro-organisms? Do bacteria count? Or is it just anything visible to the naked eye? I think you'd have to have that rule in there. And then, your kill count could be synced up with your Facebook page, so your CONFIRMED KILLS tally would be visible to all. Bugs would almost certainly make your total high, in the thousands. That would really help boost my self-esteem.
I killed a bird with my car the other day. It was a heavy rainstorm, and this bird flew out in front of my car. It started flying upward, so I kept driving straight, assuming it would keep that trajectory. Instead, it dipped back down, and I ended up nailing it with my grill, then it flopped onto my hood, slid up my windshield, and flew off the back of my roof. It was the worst thing ever. I should probably have my license revoked.
I love to eat food of all kinds. The gal I recently started seeing is quite the opposite. She is the pickiest eater I've ever encountered. No pizza, Mexican, fish, Italian, Greek, noodles, soup, or any type of Asian (to name a few). It takes forever to actually figure out a place to dine, but we were going to a concert and had to grab something quick so I suggested Subway...she said she doesn't like SANDWICHES!!! Is this shit even worth it?
No. It isn't. Dump her. Trust me. Someone who hates food doesn't enjoy living. And even if she's some wild child in the sack, that shit fades over time. Trust me, soon food will be all you have left to enjoy in life, so you better find someone who likes it just as much as you do. Life's too short to date a moron with no palate. Doesn't like sandwiches? Any sandwich? There are six million different kinds of sandwich. That girl is a waste of oxygen.
Same goes for you ladies out there. If you date some guy and he won't eat seafood or ethnic food and he'll only order his steak well done, curb his ass.
While scouring the internet for pictures of naked women, I stumbled upon one of a girl humping a pillow. No big deal, except that the girl in the picture looks remarkably similar to my ex. Also, I know that my ex was a fan of humping pillows. I now have a different girlfriend, and don't want to destroy things with her. To say that my curiosity is naturally high is a gross understatement, and a lack of knowing will slowly eat my soul. Is there any acceptable way to find out if this is her, once and for all, or will I have to settle for the soul destruction?
Well, obviously you need to find out, and the only way you can find out is by sending us the picture so that we can assemble the Deadspin I-Team.
I'm of the belief that, in today's society, your odds of dating a person who did any kind of internet porn rises every year. Think about it. There are millions of porn vids out there, and new men and women have to be added to the mix every day just to give jerkers out there something new to look at. Throw in a society filled with divorce and latchkey children and suddenly the percent of people who have done porn is surely increasing by the second. That means your odds of having dated someone who is naked online get better and better as you go along. NICE!
So it's fully possible your gal humped a pillow on camera for money. Hey, we've all been there. I think you need to find out for certain because man, would that be a blast if it were true. Every guy hopes his ex-girlfriend turns up much worse of without them, forced into a life of drugs and porn without your love and caring. I know I do.
Also, "girls humping pillows" should be its own Tumblr feed, along with "naked girls stradding couch backs" and "naked girls on all fours on bearskin rugs".
Time for a GREAT MOMENT IN MAGICAL VENDING MACHINE CURRENCY:
I party with Smoot:
Strange (but wonderful) thing happened in the lunch room today. I go to put my change in the snack machine, only when I put this one dime in, it does that thing where it rattles around and then falls straight down to the coin return because the machine didn't recognize it as a legitimate coin.
Only thing is, it counted the 10¢. So I tried again, and again it spit the coin out but counted the 10¢. Needless to say, I wound up eating pretzels and M&M's for free. Not only that, but on both purchases I deposited that glorious dime seven times (it won't add any more money after that because the most expensive item is 65¢) and it gave me the change back each time. Essentially, I was paid 25¢ to eat lunch.
Here's my moral dilemma... I know I'm not hurting the company that underpays me on a bi-weekly basis. I'm only hurting the dude in the ratty cargo shorts who comes to fill up the snack machine every other week because it was his dad's hand-me-down business or some shit. And he's really a sad looking man. But, c'mon, FREE SNICKERS. FREE POP TARTS. FREE CRUNCH BAR. God put this magic coin in my pocket. How exactly am I supposed to refrain from using this in the future?
You can't. You have to keep using it. It's like stumbling upon ATLANTIS. Trust me, vending machine Tony's life can only be improved if he gets fired for gross negligence. It's just the kind of kick in the pants he could really use. Also, you could give him a free Milky Way when he gets let go. That will really help lessen the sting.