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Help! My Wife Won’t Stop Flashing Her Boobs!

Illustration for article titled Help! My Wife Won’t Stop Flashing Her Boobs!
FunbagTime for your weekly edition of the Deadspin Funbag. Got something on your mind? Email the Funbag.

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Whenever my wife and I get together with her friends and their husbands sans children, it is usually at the lake or the someone's pool where heavy drinking is involved. The females are all reasonably nice looking and on occasion, my wife will flash her tits. Not leaving them out, but long enough for everyone to see if they are paying attention. I have no problem with this as it is all in drunken fun and ends well for me later. But over the years, other females have flashed rarely, if ever, and this seems grossly unfair. I would like to see some of the others' funbags and have asked my wife not to show anymore until the others play along. I told her I was tired of being the only man of the group to share. Is this an acceptable request or am I just being an asshole? What's fair is fair, right?


Wait, what? She does what? Do you live in Scandinavia or something? Since when did tit-flashing become part of cocktail hour? NOBODY TOLD ME. If I was out drinking at a lake with a group of people and one of the wives just randomly flashed her tits, I think I'd have to spin an Inception totem. My skull would be blown.

If your wife wants to flash her boobs at a cocktail party, I suppose that's her right. But you need to know that isn't necessarily normal. You certainly can't expect other women to respond in kind. Not every girl is so casual about tit-flashing, especially any girl with a substandard rack or a rack that may have been mutilated in a bizarre pit bull attack. Besides, if everyone started flashing their tits at the party, then one of the guys would whip out his dick, then it would lead to whole swingers orgy that would only ends in tears and MURDER years down the road. I think it's perfectly fine if you request to your wife that she keep her funbags to herself.


I am a senior in high school and am in physics class right now. I just learned that my average so far for the 2nd quarter is a 55 because I don't do the homework and get 63s on tests because I play games on my phone the whole class. I am getting my progress report this week and my parents are going to flip out. Should I

A. Tell the truth?
B. Hide the progress report?
C. Burn it?
D. Smoke some weed?

There's no point in burning it or trying to hide it because, if memory serves, teachers usually place personal calls to the parents of failing students to tell them that the kid in question is on the verge of flunking out. Plus, I assume you have no plans on doing anything to, you know, IMPROVE this score. That means you're probably gonna end up failing anyway, in which case you're merely prolonging the agony. Your solution here is to smoke the weed, then tell the truth. Their crass yelling won't hurt you as badly if you're heavily sedated.

In your defense, physics is fucking impossible. I took it in school and was miserable at it. Kilojoules and newtons and all that horrible shit: they may as well have written the textbook in fucking Russian. I couldn't process any of it. There were some subjects in school that were simply impenetrable to me. Even when I studied hard, I was unable to comprehend any of it. Physics was like that. Calculus was even worse. I think every student in America should be allowed to opt out of one required field of study per year if they demonstrate a fundamental retardery in that subject.


Do you think it's ok to use the word "gay" when you're describing something that you think is stupid? I am not gay and have absolutely no issue with people who are, but I use the word "gay" in place of "stupid" ALL the time. I have a couple of gay friends and a couple of gay family members and none of them get offended in the least bit when I use it. The only people who seem to be offended are those who try to be PC like Hilary Duff. So why are people (who are straight) so up in arms against using it to mean "stupid"?


This is an ongoing controversy that crested earlier this year with some people getting crazy pissed about that movie trailer where Vince Vaughn says electric cars are gay. Lord knows I've used the word that way, and gotten my fair share of shit about it from various people. Maybe no gay person you know is offended when you say, "Hey, that vanity plate is fucking gay," but of course that doesn't mean it holds true for the entire gay population. It really does annoy some of them, causing them to get off their Vespa scooters and come skipping at you with great fury. I KEED. I KEED.

And you can't say to someone, "Hey, you can't be pissed about that!" You can't bully someone into convincing them they aren't offended when they really are. Earlier this year, I wrote a post called LeBron James Is A Cocksucker, and we got all sorts of hate mail for using that word. And I, being a moron, was actually surprised by all this, because I never thought of that word literally. I was like, "Wait a second! You can't be angry with that word! A COCKSUCKER IS CLEARLY JUST AN ASSHOLE!" That's how I've thought of the term my whole life. Someone's who's selfish and arrogant is clearly a goddamn cocksucker. Why, it has nothing to do with sexual orientation! THE COCK IN QUESTION IS HIS OWN! But you aren't liable to see it that way if you're someone who ACTUALLY sucks cock. You're probably going to think of that word as a hateful gay slur, and rightfully so.


The problem with getting rid of using the word "gay" in a derogatory way for things that are lame or stupid is that, frankly, it's a fantastic word. It really is. It's great to say. It's not like certain racial or gay epithets that sound ugly or harsh when you hear them. It's a fun word, a lively word, a GAY word! It's just the right sounding word depending upon the situation. For example, if you work at the Cheesecake Factory and they force you to wear flair on Saturdays, it just feels RIGHT for you to say, "Christ, these buttons are fucking gay." It's the ideal word there. Nothing else is quite as effective. Of course, I could be saying this because I'M CLEARLY A HOMOPHOBE AND HISTORY'S GREATEST MONSTER.


I suppose you could use the alternate spelling "ghey" to help distinguish between the two, but users on UrbanDictionary have already seen through that ruse and deemed it homophobic. So what I think needs to happen is that gay people need to lose the word and go by something else. It's too good of a word to keep all for yourselves, gays. I need it in case my old lady wants me to put a Katherine Heigl movie on NetFlix. Just call yourselves something different. Like, I dunno, "cocksuckers". That works!


Seriously though, we should all probably use that word less. I know I've tried not to use it as often. I save it strictly for special oggaysions. I keep it stowed away in an emergency case, so I can I break the glass and retrieve it whenever that Owl City song pops on the radio.



I am pretty sure that beef jerky is immune to the laws of supply and demand. No matter how much I buy, it never gets cheaper. No matter how much anyone buys, it never gets cheaper.


It's true! It's grotesquely expensive. Every time I walk into a 7-11, I think about buying a bag of Jack Link's, then I see the $5.99 price tag and it always floors me. The bag weighs a tenth of an ounce. Cocaine has a lower cost by weight. I don't see the word WAGYU anywhere on the ingredient list. Six bucks is a lot to pony up for strips of beef that have been hung and dried and are now tough enough to repel most live ammunition.


Am I right for telling my fiance that going to get my eyebrows waxed is the most embarrassing, humiliating, emasculating thing she could ever ask me to do, even though I do have a pretty serious uni-brow? Is it better to suck it up, spend the $10 and get it done instead of having her attack my face with tweezers every few weeks?


Yes. It's better to go get them done. Why not have it done by a professional who may end up being an extremely attractive worker at Jean Louis David who gives you a vigorous scalp massage before plucking away?

I've been married for eight years, and I'm always shocked and stunned at how often my wife regards me as little more than a scratch toy. I'll just be sitting there when she'll jam a finger in my fucking eye to get a sleepy out. Or she'll just start rooting through my hair to check for, I dunno, follicular abnormalities. Then I'll tell the woman to stop and she will and then five minutes later she's doing it again! What the fuck? I have been poked and prodded and subject to numerous tests against my will. Yet if I do anything like that back, I'm Mr. Overly Sexually Aggressive. DOUBLE STANDARDNESS!


Just this past week, I was standing at the sink washing dishes when my wife took a cologne sample from some magazine and smeared it right on my fucking neck. Without me asking. I'm minding my own business, then suddenly BOOM! OASIS FOR MEN! OASIS FOR MEN! And it smelled awful. You can't just do that, ladies. We're not canvases for you to work on. You can't come attacking us with fucking eye creams and tweezers and whatever other mad ideas you have fluttering around in your goddamn heads. We're people, too. ASK.


It was taken in a gas station stall in Pontiac, Illinois. The poet obviously put some great thought into this so I think its best to share his work with the world.

Illustration for article titled Help! My Wife Won’t Stop Flashing Her Boobs!

Get that poet a Federal grant.

Speaking of dingleberries, allow me to tell you an absolutely horrible story that will disgust and repel you. The other day, I'm taking a shit right before I hit the shower. So I wipe up, get off the pot, hop in the shower, and immediately start soaping my ass to get any and excess excess poop out of the crevice. I did a lousy job wiping, so a little ball of shit lands at the edge of the shower, far away from the drain. This horrified me. I didn't want to spend any longer sharing the shower with the speck of poop than need be, so I spent an inordinate amount of time trying to redirect the stream of the shower so that it would sweep up the shitball and whisk it to the drain. HOWEVER, I had to make sure the stream wasn't too forceful, so that it wouldn't blast the shitball directly into my foot. So I stood there for at least ten minutes trying to guide the poop to the drain. This happens to me at least once a month. I wish showers had better drainage systems. Also, I'm a repugnant human being.



Why do football announcers always have to include the five yard line in their call of a long run, punt return, kickoff return, or pick-6? They will shout something along the lines of, "He's at the 40! The 30! The 20! 10! FIVE! Touchdown!!" It's uncanny. They squeeze it in there every time. The 25 gets no love.


Because it SOUNDS great. They should rename the five-yard line the GAY for that very reason. He's at the 40! The 30! The 20! Then 10! THE GAY! Touchdown!

I think throwing the five in there also helps build up the sexual release. You think he's gonna say TOUCHDOWN after he mentions the ten, but he doesn't. He's teasing you. He's pausing just before that one last mighty orgasmic THRUST into the end zone. It's a real cool trick.




Is there a more nerve-racking chore to perform than putting dishes away while the kids are sleeping? It's not possible to even SET a plate on top of another without it sounding like a gunshot echoing through the house. Here's how you can make your million dollars: invent silent dishes.


Agreed. I've long argued with my wife that we should use paper plates and paper cups until the children are at least 18. They make no noise. I don't have to wash them. And no one is in danger of fucking breaking them. But nooooooo, we have to live like civilized folk! Even the plastic dishes sound like snare drums when I stack them.

I am a naturally loud human being. I don't mean that I spend all day yelling at the top of my lungs, but I tend to make noise whenever I move. I'm big, so my footsteps are loud. I sometimes inadvertently close doors too hard, causing them to make a slamming sound. I fart. I trip over things ALL THE TIME and make a racket trying to correct myself. I'm just naturally loud, even when I'm trying not to be. ESPECIALLY when I'm trying not to be. Now, my wife is the precise opposite of this. And so, my life has devolved into little more than my wife telling me that I'm being too fucking loud, especially when the kids are asleep. My counterargument is that the kids need to learn to sleep through mild noises. It toughens them up. YOU'LL NEVER BE A FUCKING WARRIOR IF YOU CAN'T SLEEP WITH A LITTLE GUNFIRE GOING OFF. But I always lose that argument. One time I closed a cabinet door too hard and my wife got mad at me and I was finally like, "Will you just leave me be? Okay? I'm not a goddamn cat burglar. I can't always keep quiet. Accept me for my loud fartiness." After that, we came to a bit more of an understanding.


But now I've become a tightass when it comes to noise. So like, when houseguests come over and the kids are sleeping, I have to bitch at THEM to not be too noisy, lest they wake up the precious, precious children. And that makes me feel like a douche. Kids shouldn't grow ears until age 15. It's not like they use them to listen anyway.


Is it weird that when I get in bed, I imagine myself teaching a class about how to sleep. And not a preschool or something, I mean a full lecture hall of students who are paying an exorbitant amount of money to be touched by my sleeping wisdom. I lecture on everything: keeping the sheets untucked for optimal nocturnal leg mobility, comforter placement up to the neck, and a blanket horizontally located across my chest. I sleep with a fan on so in the winter I mentally explain to my "students" how to maximize the cold air to comfort ratio. I guarantee I have run through every single variable imaginable at least once in my life.


Jesus, that's brilliant. I'm totally gonna use that technique to fall asleep now. It beats my old technique of tying a plastic bag around my head, which my wife deemed unsafe.

Whenever I'm on the verge of falling asleep, I'll notice that my brain will, at some point, begin to conjure up dreamlike images: purple swans, brunches with Elvis Costello, etc. Shit that doesn't make any real sense. I won't be asleep quite yet, but I'm not entirely awake, so I can kind of consciously KNOW that I'm about to finally fall asleep, which is always of great relief to me. So whenever I can't fall asleep, I take great pains to picture as much random shit in my head as possible, so that my brain will catch my drift: fighting monkeys, centaurs wearing monocles, a beach ball with human legs. I resent that I have to exert that much imagination just to fall asleep. I should really start taking Ambien.


On other thing I noticed when I was napping the other day was that I fall asleep faster if I leave my mouth open. Read into that what you will.

Psycho Mime:

saw this license plate on the way to work the other day. you can't tell here, but the bumper sticker says "I make breast milk, what's your superpower?"

Illustration for article titled Help! My Wife Won’t Stop Flashing Her Boobs!

That is awful.


A few weeks ago, I was riding my bike to catch a long distance bus to Denver. (Yes, you guessed it. I'm a poor college student). On the way, I hit some gravel, skidded, and ate shit fairly extensively, banging my shins on the bike pedals and letting my hands and hairline scape on the asphalt. I picked myself up and recovered enough to get back on the bike and make it to the station on time. Once on the bus though, the pain began to set in, and I realized that there was blood slowly trickling down my forehead into my eye, in addition to some seeping through my pant legs. Without a bathroom on the bus, there was no way to clean it up and I sat there, sweaty and bloodied like Rambo, fully expecting some buxom woman to come up, daintily asking me if I wanted to borrow her white blouse to wipe my forehead clean.

I waited the whole bus ride, and no one, not even the grandma to my left, made a comment regarding my bloodied head and legs. I admittedly wasn't elimanning-ing from the head, but I at least warranted one look of concern from another passenger on the hour-long bus ride. What's your standard volume of blood that you require before acknowledging a stranger's injuries, and is this amount significantly altered if you're on public transportation?


I'm surprised no one mentioned it, because I think a lot of people get off on pointing out the fact that someone near them is bleeding. "Hey, do you know you're bleeding?" I know if someone I know is bleeding, I go out of my way to point it out. "Holy shit! YOU'RE BLEEDING!" "I am?" "Yeah! You're all bloody and everything! LET ME GET YOU A TISSUE!" It makes me feel like a real doctor. I even give them medical instructions, even though I have no business doing so. Keep your nose up! Disinfect the wound! Take anti-inflammatories! This is my only chance to play God!

Anyway, no one mentioned it to you because, obviously, you were on a fucking Greyhound bus. Everyone assumed you just hopped on the bus to skip town after murdering an orphan. No one's gonna point out the evidence of a struggle on your person. You might kill THEM. Also, from living in New York for six years, I adopted the rule that if the person bleeding has no problem with it, then I got no problem with it. Helps when sussing out which bleeding homeless people to step over.


Time for your email of the week. Scott, come and claim your prize by emailing the tips line.


First real date of my life, in the 9th grade. We go to a movie and at some point hold hands and make out. This gave me an unrelenting boner. I assumed that my date had an even greater physiological reaction. I told several of my friends later that I knew she was into it, and had likely come. If not, she certainly had gotten very wet. I based this on the fact that I could smell oranges at one point. Obviously. To be clear, I truly believed this. None of my friends knew enough to call out the multiple reasons this was retarded.

My date did, though. A few days later she ran up to me in the hall and screamed "Did you tell everyone that I smell like oranges?!" We did not go on a second date.


I love everything about that story. Ninth grade boys are the greatest creatures on Earth, I tell you. By the way, if any of you ladies out there have genitals that smell like citrus whenever you're turned on, I strongly suggest you note that on your profile immediately. That's a huge plus. Much better than the typical expired ham smell you get from traditional vulva.