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Time for your weekly edition of the Deadspin Funbag. Find more of Drew's stuff at KSK or on Twitter. Today, we're covering hotel dining cart theft, train tracks, squirrel fighting, and more.

Your letters:


Would you be willing to eat a human steak for $100,000? It can be prepared anyway you like it, and with any condiments that you see fit to include. You have to finish it though. I'm thinking no more than 12 ounces, and it can be chosen from any part of someone else's body that you want.


Push comes to shove? Probably not. Even if the person willingly donated their flesh to be eaten before getting into a car accident or something (I, for one, always carry my Cannibal Donor card in the back of my wallet). It's cannibalism. It's not for pussies, and I am a HUGE pussy. Initially, I'd accept the money without hesitation. Then chow time would arrive and I'd get cold feet. I know myself well enough to know that my stupid morals would eventually derail me. If I only I had been born a sociopath. So freeing!

Now, if you upped the ante to $10 million, well then pass the A1.

As an aside, when I die, I would like my body to be donated to prank research. If there's a good cadaver prank out there to be had, I want my rotting corpse in on the action. You could even take my corpse drinking later that night.


Max (again):

I work in a restaurant, and I have been wondering this for a long time. Anybody who has ever worked in a restaurant knows that you don't really get sick days. You show up and deal with it, because there are 500 other people ready to take your place. On these days of working while sick, I wonder if I have ever passed on said sickness to an elderly patron who in turn, died from the illness that they contracted from me. Does this make me responsible for the death of that person, or is it my dirty bosses fault for not sending me home?

I guess you're partially responsible. But that's not a bad thing. If anything, you should be proud that your lethal flu neurotoxin helped rid us of yet another old person eating up valuable government Medicare funds. If I had the means, I'd serve a salivaburger to every 80-year-old with a tube up his nose in this great nation. We've got a deficit to trim, people.


It's amazing that there aren't more deadly disease outbreaks in American restaurants. Who works in restaurants? Well, you have chefs, who are all junkies and freaks. Then you have the wait staff, which is comprised of 20-year-olds who are too busy thinking about how to score blow that night to wash their hands. I worked in a restaurant. Your food is handled by multiple people. None of them (except in some chains) are wearing gloves when they poke and prod your meal. Some of the chefs need to taste the sauces, which means the lazier ones double dip (I totally do this at home). Some of them have the flu. One of them almost certainly has ass herpes. And none of them are likely to give a shit about you getting sick because you're just some random customer so FUCK YOU. It's terrifying, when you think about it. Which is why I never think about it. I'll have the tossed salad with raw beef, please!


You ever stare at the tiles in front of you at a public bathroom and try to go cross-eyed to make them blend together, you know, to make sure there aren't any hidden 3D dinosaurs or what not? I do this nearly every time I use a bathroom that has a tile backsplash. Sometimes, if you align the tiles just right, they actually do become sort of 3D and it really fucks with your depth perception and also kind of makes you dizzy, which of course makes me want to keep doing it so I can further explore this strange phenomenon. Occasionally, if I get a really good one going, I'll poke my finger at the wall so I can watch and be amazed that what my brain is telling me I'm seeing doesn't match up with what my brain is telling me I'm feeling. Long story short, if you walk into a bathroom and see a guy peeing while touching the wall with his finger and swaying like a drunk, just leave me alone, I'm conducting science.


Yeah, I'm a big proponent of experimenting with double vision. I thought it was the coolest thing in the world when I was a kid. I thought I had super powers. I CAN MAKE TWO OF YOU.

Wallpaper was great for this. If the wallpaper had a pattern, I liked to match up objects in the pattern so that they overlapped. So let's say the wallpaper had nothing but anchors on it (in the bathroom, of course). I'd spot two anchors on the wall and then use my super awesome double vision power to get them to match up perfectly with one another. I HAVE DROPPED A SUPER ANCHOR UPON YOU ALL.

My folks have wallpaper in their house that's a wicker pattern. Someone designed it so that it looks like the wicker you'd see on a deck chair from Pier 1 or something like that. Anyway, if you stare at the wallpaper long enough, your eyes can trick you into believing the wall is really MADE of wicker. It looks 3D and everything. I always try, even now, to see how long I could hold the effect without doubling over with nausea. I don't last very long.


I also enjoy staring at objects until everything around them begins kind of flashing. If you've ever been stuck in some boring class, you know what I'm talking about. You're half asleep, and you can barely keep your eyes open. So you fixate on something on the chalkboard or a globe nearby or whatever. If you stare hard enough, everything around it starts to flash in white. It feels like the object is coming at you, which is COOL AS FUCK. Then you have to blink and the spell breaks. I've done this a million times with the end goal of hypnotizing myself and commanding myself to go get a million dollars. I have yet to succeed. But I'mma keep tryin'.


My fat friend and I are in constant competition with one another, and I need an outside source to confirm that I had a better season than he did in our slow pitch softball league. Here are our stat lines:

Me: .674 average, 4 home runs, 31 extra base hits, 52 Runs, 50 RBI
Fat Friend: .600 average, 11 home runs, 28 extra base hits, 47 runs, 46 RBI

Fat Friend seems to think his home run total would get the votes from the sportswriters that he needs in this make-believe MVP race, but I am quick to point out that his stats are comparable to Cecil Fielder, and he never won an MVP award. Also, like Cecil Fielder, my friend is both fat and bad at gambling. I take this one home right?


No. It's softball. Who gives a shit about anything other than home runs? NO ONE. The fact that you tallied stats beyond home runs is stupid and gay. Home runs are all that matters, ever. If I were a pro baseball player, I'd be Rob Deer. I'd openly not give a shit about anything other than hitting home runs that make my own dick hard. They can't get players back on steroids fast enough for my tastes.


When looking up a location on Google Maps, I cannot help but spend a couple minutes in Satellite view, perusing the area for secret weapon-building locations or missile silos. I imagine myself in the White House Situation Room, making my case to the president that a garage is actually storing a secret cache of nuclear weapons, and the friendly neighbors whos seemed so unassuming must be taken out immediately, along with their stockpile of missiles.


I keep hoping to see two people fucking through a house skylight. But it never happens. I have to think that Google has a treasure trove of satellite images of people fucking all over the place. Houses. Parks. Auto body shops. I bet the NSA has a whole database of it, too. They're the original paparazzi.

It reminds me of that movie Breach, which no one saw because Ryan Philippe has pouty lips. Chris Cooper played Robert Hanssen in that movie, and Hanssen would secretly tape himself banging his wife and then trade sex tapes with Russians and shit. So I always think there's this enormous underground of disgruntled, alcoholic National Security officials who have created this whole black market of satellite image porn and self-made mature porn clips. I want in that little club SO, SO BADLY.


I'm in the furniture store the other day with my wife, and I thought to myself that the store would be a great place to have a massive game of manhunt/hide-and-seek. I am talking about a more upscale furniture store, as opposed to an IKEA.


Agreed. I also can't walk into any furniture store without wanting to take a four-hour nap on one of the fancy made-up beds.

I'd like to find whoever created the game of hide and seek and give him a fucking medal. I play hide and seek with my kid all the time. I go hide in the closet (symbolic!), and if she can't find me, then that means a solid five minute of DADDY ALONE TIME. I can just hang out there in the dark, with no one asking me to do shit. It's AWESOME. The it's the kid's turn to hide and you can pretend you can't find them for fifteen minutes while checking your email. Where are you? Where are you? Are you in the cabinet? Just kidding. I know you're under the table. I'll come get you in a little bit, kiddo. DADDY HAS ANGRY BRETT FAVRE EMAILS TO LAUGH AT.

One day, we'll play that game, and I'll hide in Vancouver. Totally within the rules.



How many squirrels would it take to bring you to the ground? The squirrels come at a rate of one every 5 seconds for guys and one every 10 seconds for girls. The squirrels are programmed to attack you but don't have a sophisticated plan to bring you down (they don't know to send 2 to bite your ankles while another goes straight for the balls), they simply come at you like you are a giant acorn or walnut so to speak. The squirrels are allowed to bite, but you have immunity from rabies for your participation. If you knock a squirrel off of you, it can come back...but if you kill it, it obviously cannot but still counts towards your number. You have long pants and long sleeves on but no extra padding (one could withstand hundreds with a cup and a fencing helmet)

Answers have varied from 1 to 100+, with most people claiming they could tolerate 7-25 squirrels before falling. I was walking through the park the other day and it's all I could think about. My girlfriend thinks I am losing my mind...but she also thinks it would take 4 squirrels to bring her down.


Wouldn't it just take one? I'm fairly certain that it would take just one attacking squirrel for me to drop to the ground and curl into a fucking racquetball. I'd be terrified of a squirrel coming to get me, with their prickly squirrel tails and their sharp squirrel teeth. A squirrel would fucking own me.

Now, if I have a suit of armor on? If we're talking how many squirrels would need the brute strength just to knock me over? Well, that might take more than one. In theory. In actuality, I'd have exact same pussy reaction if a squirrel decided to attack me.

A long time ago, I was swimming in Long Island Sound with my friend. We swam up to this giant rock off the shore and climbed on to look around. In one of the cracks was this nest of bird's eggs. We saw the one of the eggs had rolled over and out of the nest, exposed to the crashing waves. So we did the seemingly nice thing and put the egg back in the nest. I thought it would help protect the egg. Also, I thought telling a girl about it later on could get me pussy.


Anyway, if you see a bird's egg sitting on a rock in the middle of the water, YOU LEAVE THAT EGG THE FUCK ALONE. Two seconds later a seagull came swooping down and almost took out my eye. I didn't put two and two together until another seagull came down. Then it was like, MAYDAY! MAYDAY! WE'RE UNDER FUCKING ATTACK! We leapt from the rock and back into the Sound and the birds circled over us and dove at our fucking heads. I nearly shit my pants. It was totally like storming the beaches at Normandy (NOTE: It was nothing like storming the beaches at Normandy).

So if a bird can make me cower in fear like that, you'd probably only need half a squirrel to take my sorry ass down.



I think you need to go back to school and learn another word to express yourself. Your problem is, you are a fat illiterate product of backwoods inbreeding. You have to use the word FUCK to express yourself due to your very limited vocabulary. I hope you feel better now you put Brett Favre down. Does it make you feel better about yourself?


Totally does.


So everyday I have to cross over this railroad track as I walk through town. And every single day I am absolutely terrified that I am going to get my foot caught in the track like I'm in a bad movie and then of course the train will come and I will lose my leg. Even though I know better and I sure as hell know I am not shoving my foot in any small spots in the track (in fact I take huge steps over each rail to avoid this) I just have this feeling it's going to happen, I mean it happens fairly often in the movies.


That happens to anyone who watched Stand By Me as a child and developed an irrational fear of train-related death. I know I suffer from a similar affliction. Whenever I walk along any railroad track, I'm constantly looking at the rail to make sure it isn't vibrating. I'll often bend down and feel the rail, LaChance style. I'll think about dodging it if it comes along. I turn my head every five seconds to make sure a train isn't on my ass when I'm walking on the track, even though I'd clearly be able to hear one coming from very far away. Also, anytime I walk along a railroad track, I picture myself taking a very deep and spiritual journey to go check out a dead body and maybe poke it with a stick. Again, Stand By Me is to blame for this. In fact, that movie is to blame for lots of things, like my constant fear that a leech will end up on my cock if I go swimming in any natural body of water.

I also like to walk along a railroad track and pretend the apocalypse has hit and killed everyone else. Railroad tracks are good for this because they're often quiet, and there's old RC Cola cans from 1981 lying around. THE LAST REMNANTS OF MAN. I walked with my kid along a track last winter, and the kid's is a great accessory for this. You totally feel like it's "The Road". ALL WE HAVE IS A PISTOL AND EACH OTHER.

I lived in New York for six years, and whenever I took the subway I had to restrain myself from jumping down onto the subway track and checking out the tunnels. The DANGER HIGH VOLTAGE signs only made it more tempting.



Me and two friends got busted drinking beer in the Disneyland parking lot when we were 17. They took us to the happiest lock up on earth right there in the park. When my friend's dad picked us up, they told us to never come back. Ever. I'm 40 now. Do you think it's safe to go back?

Yes. In fact, here is what I recommend. Go to the park. Bring a flask. Spend the whole day at the park. Ride Space Mountain twice in five hours, all that shit. Finish the entire flask. Then, on your way out, stop by the security office and start taunting them. YOU FUCKERS TRIED TO KEEP ME AWAY FOR LIFE! BUT I AM HERE, BITCHES! AND GUESS WHAT? I'M FUCKING LOOOOOOOOOADED!!!! THIS PARK IS ASS!


Then get the fuck outta Dodge. You'll feel like a million bucks.


I got into an argument with my girlfriend yesterday as to which is worse:

a.) getting a zipper stuck on a piece of cloth on a bag and not being able to close it or move it back to its original position, or
b.) losing an essential, load bearing drawstring (e.g. on a swimsuit) really deep in the drawstring hole.

She's agreed to let you be an independent arbiter of this debate, with side bets riding on the eventual outcome.


Are we assuming the zipper can NEVER be returned to its original position? If so, then the zipper is worse. But if you're saying the zipper can be freed from the cloth if I pull on it like fucking Excalibur from the stone, then I'd say the drawstring is worse. Only because it takes longer and can't be worked back out of the hole in one swift, violent motion. I buy very cheap clothing, because I'm a cheap asshole and don't care about my appearance. The cheap zippers split all the fucking time. And that is awful. There's nothing worse than walking along, seeing your zipper split open, think it's just unzipped, reaching for the bottom of the zipper because you assume the doohickey is at the bottom, and realize your cheap zipper just bitched you.

Odd Duck:

Whenever I see a woman driving with a man in the passenger seat I immediately assume this man has either A.) Lost his license or B.) Is returning home from lasik surgery. Am I alone here?


Probably not. But I'll confess: I now pretty much have the lady drive any time we're both in the car. I used to always want to be the chief driver in the family. But I got tired of being told I was driving like a crazy person by my wife. I'LL HANDLE THE ROAD MISSY. YOU LOOK AFTER THE YOUNG ONES. Anyway, one morning, we were driving and I went too fast or something and then we started bickering and then I was like, "You know what? FUCK IT. You win. You drive everywhere. I never bother you when you drive, so YOU drive." And she does, and all is well. We don't fight. I get to close my eyes. It's all good. So I'm vehicularly castrated now. It's not like these balls were doing me much good to begin with.

I don't even look at the road anymore. Whenever someone else besides me was driving in the car, I used to freak out that they weren't driving fast enough, and that they weren't proactive enough to take the initiative and go around that slow old person in front of us. But I let go. Now I just stare out the window. LOOK! PRETTY HOUSIES!


Check out "letting it soak" on urban dictionary. Do mormon fucks actually do this?


Well, since I willingly believe anything I read, particularly when it comes to Mormonism, my answer is yes. You could tell me Mormons don't eat Cheez Its because the hole is too suggestive and I'd believe it.


The wife and I went on vacation to California, I travel a bit for work and at check in received a free upgraded to first class for the trip out, she wasn't.

So what is the rule here? The wife assumes I'm giving up the seat so she can have it, I politely let her know I'll be using it, see you in 4 hours. Now my theory is this, I'm 6'2", 220 lbs, she is 5'2 115 lbs, she fits very neatly in a coach seat. I will easily knock back 6-8 free cocktails, she will drink OJ. I get off on feeling superior to others, and nothing makes you feel better then sitting in first class, sipping on a cocktail while you watch the pool slobs in coach meander past. Needless to say she didn't agree and the first 3 days of the vacation were very quiet.


You fucked up. You think a woman listens to reason in such matters? You should've known better to at least propose a mid-flight swap.

Time for the Email Of The Week. Winner gets a free advanced copy of Stephen Davis' LZ-'75, a chronicle of Led Zeppelin's 1975 American tour. MUD SHARKS AHOY! Your winner this week is Bobby, who sends in a GREAT MOMENT IN DRUNKEN GLUTTON HISTORY. Bobby, come get your love.

I'm at a bachelor party in New Orleans and come stumbling back to the hotel at about 3:30 in the morning. Only me and one other friend had stayed out that late, but we were staying on different floors of the hotel. So, we get to the fourth floor, and it's time for me to venture off on my own.

As soon as the elevator closes, I realize I don't have the slightest idea which direction my room is in. But I know it's in a corner and I have a key. So, I figure I can just walk to each of the four corners and test my key in the door. It's foolproof.

After failing at my first door, I come across a used room service tray with what appears to be Chicken Alfredo with a side of untouched garlic bread. Needless to say, I ate the garlic bread. And man, was it delicious. I then consider taking the tray with me to eat the pasta but decide, since I don't even know where my room is yet, that's probably not a good idea. So, I leave it be. I then strike out at about four more corners worth of doors. Drunken me thinks, "I've just made a lap around this square hallway (the hallway was actually H-shaped). There can only be four corners. What the fuck is going on?"

Even though panic is starting to set in, I keep moving on. Then, I see the pasta again. Now, I've already resisted this free Chicken Alfredo once; there's no way I'm doing it again. But I still don't know where my room is and at this point, and I'm not sure I'm going to find it any time soon. So, I do the only reasonable thing: pick up the entire wad of pasta with my hand, start eating, and keep walking. Now, I've been wandering this hall for at least twenty minutes without seeing a soul, yet the second I start chowing down on the pasta, I hear a group get off the elevator. "Oh shit, they're coming to get me for my pasta theft!"

Luckily, I see a bag of trash outside another person's room. So, I go to dispose of my pasta wad there, and the moment I let it go was the exact moment I realized this was no trash bag. It was a gift bag with a box about the size of a ring inside.

I can only hope that some guy was going to wake up in mere hours and ask his soon to be fiancée to get the paper, thinking she would instead find her engagement ring, only for her to instead find my half-chewed pasta wad gift-wrapped just for her.


That's just what Jimmy Page would have done, kid.