Before we get to the funbagginess, today marks the five-year anniversary of the first blog post I ever wrote.
/looks back at post
I'm pretty sure I've somehow become even worse since posting that. I DEFINE MATURATION PROCESS. Time for your letters. Today's Funbag is a bit short because I have the flu and the only thing that will apparently alleviate the symptoms is cutting my own head off.
The Royal We:
OK, so I'm at a wedding a few weeks ago where one of my best friends from high school married another girl we went to school with. So I'm looking around when it dawns on me - I'm probably never going to be in a wedding party. Ever. I've got no brothers and my sister needs a serious personality makeover if she's ever getting married.
I'll never be a best man. Not one of my friends would trust me that much. Am I missing out on something? There isn't any shortage of people in my circle getting married. So I'll still get to experience the open bars, bachelor parties, drunken dancing, etc. Should I want to be a part of such a great occasion in the life of one of my friends? Or is this shit overrated? Do I even have any friends?
There are pluses and minuses to being a best man or a groomsman, so let's get the minuses out of the way first so that you feel better about yourself. Here are the drawbacks to being the best man. First off, you have to plan the bachelor party. Bachelor parties, of course, are fun to plan initially. Where will you go? Where will you stay? MIDGET HOOKER OR SHE-MALE HOOKER?! All that big picture planning is very exciting and gets you daydreaming of jetting off to Vegas and nailing a five-star escort over the balcony of Ghostbar. The problem is that you must then EXECUTE those plans. That means going onto to Expedia to check for flights and hotels and all that shit, and gathering together the guest list of everyone who should attend (including at least one or two of the groom's friends who you probably don't care for), then COLLECTING money from all of those idiots either before or after the event has taken place. All of that sucks. All of it. And in the end, everyone will fuck you and you'll end up eating the deposit on that condo in Lake Havisu. FUCKING INGRATES.
Also, you have to hand the ring over to the groom, and that exchange is always awkward and horrible. I was my brother's best man. I kept the ring in my pocket prior to the vows and kept my hand on it because I was terrified of somehow losing it. Thus, I sweat all over the fucking thing. So when I handed it to my brother to put on his wife, it was doused in about a liter of Drew juice. And that's regrettable.
You don't have to do any of that if you're just a groomsman, of course. I suppose the only real drawback of being a groomsman is that you have to pay for the tux rental (or whatever uniform piece of clothing the groom wants you to wear), and you'll have to pony up for an extra night at the hotel since you have to be part of the rehearsal (but you get a free meal out of that, and the food at the rehearsal dinner meal is always better than the actual food at the wedding).
So those are the minuses. The upside of being the best man, of course, is that it makes you officially the best friend of your best friend. Did Bob pick Rick or Neil or JaMarcus to be his best man? No. He picked YOU, because you fucking rule. SUCK ON THAT, OTHER LESSER FRIENDS OF BOB. Plus you get to make the toast, make a few people laugh, and spend the next few years dreaming of parlaying that toast into being the next Mitch Hedberg. I've been mentally writing the best man toast for my friend Jeremy for decades now. And he's still not married, and he may never get married, which makes him a DICK.
As for being a groomsman, that means you basically made the All-Star team of Bob's friends. You even get a uniform, which is cool.
Weddings always inspire a high school mentality in people. The wedding parties establish three tiers of friendship for the bride and groom. If you're the best man, that makes you the Top tier. If you're in the party, that makes you the second tier. And if you're merely a guest, then the groom clearly invited you just to fill out roster space. People are competitive in nature. They want to be special enough to be chosen to stand at that altar. They want to sit a table with a low number during the reception. It makes you feel crazy important, even if it's just a fucking wedding. And if most of the people you know at a wedding are in the party but you aren't, then you really feel like a loser.
But the truth is that those wedding party designations don't mean much of anything. Friendships ebb and flow and even though it seems like your circle of friends is set for life at 24, it sure as shit isn't. You may think you'll never be a best man or a groomsman, but you might be surprised. You meet friends at work. At the swinger's club. EVERYWHERE. And it's easier to make friends as you get older because you're more comfortable with yourself and not as much of a blithering idiot. Those All-Star friend lineups can change a lot over the course of a decade or so.
But yeah, avoid planning that bachelor party. It always ends in broken promises. And be grateful you're a man and you never have to be a bridesmaid. Being a bridesmaid is like being sent to prison camp.
I live alone, therefore I eat a lot of Hamburger Helper. Why do the instructions on the box tell you to cook it in a skillet? I tried it once. The whole time I was either paranoid that the shit would boil over the quarter inch of spare room in the skillet, or that I would stir too vigorously and spill it all over my stove top. There are absolutely no fucking benefits to using a skillet, Hamburger Helper.
There are few things worse than cooking something and realizing the pot or skillet you're using is too small to accommodate all the shit the recipe told you to put in. Because I'd rather lick a hot stove than transfer that shit over to a new pot. Once you realize there's no spare room in the pan, you're bitched.
Ever heat up marinara sauce and have it bubble up and instantly start attacking your shirt? AWFUL.
What non-elected title would you think would be the coolest? I'd have to go with Count. You were born into being a Count? Panties will drop.
King has to trump Count. Because that also gets you "Your Majesty" and "Your Royal Highness". It's like three antiquated titles for the price of one. Also, the "count" title sounds cool, but most actual counts are just dipshit Austrian DJ's. They're never as cool as you think they're gonna be.
Do you ever get jealous of people living in other time zones? Like when I'm at work in New York at 9:30AM, those bastards in California are still sleeping. Then when it's time to go home at 6PM I feel all superior because they're still going to be stuck at work for a few hours.
They're not gonna be stuck at work at 3PM Pacific time. People in California don't WORK. They're probably still sleeping in, because they are assholes.
I used to have a Geochron in my room when I was a kid. This was a map of the world that was divided into time zones and scrolled across in sync with the Earth's rotation. The parts of the world where it was day were lit up, and the parts of the world where it was night weren't. You can imagine what a cruel device this was to own on Christmas Eve. I'd be trying to fall asleep at midnight or something, look at the map, and know it was day over in Poland. All the little dickhead Polack kids got a head start on opening their Christmas gift of stuffed cabbage every year, and we American kids would always have to bring up the rear. Such bullshit.
Do you think that Magic Johnson has had sex in the past 20 years? I've asked a lot of people and they all seem pretty confident that he has. Unless he has a Craig's List ad requesting sex with fellow AIDS enthusiasts I'm not as convinced as my friends. Am I missing something here?
Well, since he's married, and since his wife seems to believe he's actually been cured of HIV by God, I'm quite sure Magic has been in Cookie's jar since being infected. But given how fat Magic is now, I assume his sperm would die of heart failure midway out of his shaft.
Do you think Vegas honored the bets of people who wagered on the Los Angeles-Cleveland football game in the opening scene of The Last Boy Scout? I assume the game was called off after the murder-suicide but as a gambler I think about these things.
I think the game would likely be called off and moved to a later date, and I assume Giancarlo your bookie would still hold your bet in place for that subsequent replay.
By the way, if that actually happened in an NFL game, the subsequent Lupica column the next day would trigger at least seventeen more murder/suicides.
First off thanks for using my picture for the header of your article and second no one was talking smack about Favre last year when he almost took the Vikings to the Super Bowl. He is a legend for the NFL not just for one team. Go Favre and go Pack since I will always be a cheesehead.
Time for your email of the week. And it's a doozy. Andy gives us a GREAT MOMENT IN FOOT SPLINTERS.
After a late evening out I woke up very early at my girlfriend's place needing to piss. I was buck naked and the bathroom was just across the hall. I didn't feel like throwing on clothes but because I'm a bit of a germophobe I couldn't walk into their bathroom with bare feet. I put on a fresh pair of socks purchased the previous day and walked out to relieve myself. I left the bathroom and was going to walk down the hall to grab some water (because it was so early, and because I was still loaded, I was unconcerned about my nudity). Seeing a good 20 feet of hallway in front of me I did a three or four step sprint into a slide until suddenly my right foot caught on something. Seering pain shot up my leg and I was down on the floor SCREAMING. I looked down and saw blood dripping from my foot and saw a splinter the size of a nail inside the ball of my right foot. At this point the boyfriend of my girl's roommate came out of the door fearing a break-in and saw me naked and bleeding on the floor. After laughing for about 10 minutes he grabbed me a towel and some paper towels while we figured out how to get this thing out of my foot. We grabbed it with tweezers and a pair of pliers and couldn't get it. Finally, in our infinite drunken wisdom, we took a box cutter and "opened the wound" a bit. The pain was indescribable but the splinter losened and half of it came out. What also came out was a steady stream of blood similar to a bullet wound. We couldn't get the other part out and now it was clear I needed to go to the emergency room. I put on a pair of shorts that ended up getting soaked with blood and was carried into the hospital looking like Ricky from Boyz in the Hood.
The end result was minor surgery to remove the rest of the giant splinter, two weeks on crutches and some permanent nerve damage. Fuckin Cruise...