Time for your weekly edition of the Deadspin Funbag. Got something on your mind? Email the Funbag. Today, we’re covering poop vengeance, phone oversharing, and more.
What constitutes cheating on a relationship in the 21st century? For example, if you go to one of those "Skype sex" sites where you can see a woman in some place like the Ukraine on a webcam and she can see you in real time, is that cheating, or is that the same thing as fapping to internet porn? What about phone sex? What if it's phone sex with someone you know?
I can't imagine your (wife/girlfriend/co-worker with whom you have an ambiguous "thing" going) would be all that pleased to walk in on you logged onto Skype, with your dick in your hand, talking dirty to the girl at the local bakery. It's hard to make a blanket definition of "cheating" in the 21st century when the Internet allows you to act out all of your deranged sexual fantasies without ever, technically speaking, touching another person. Sure, you didn't have actual sex with Olga on the other end of the line, but no woman is gonna be like, "Oh, you didn't penetrate her? Oh well then, that's all good."
You're best off assuming that any sexual relationship with another living being—even Skype sex, that technological miracle for all married men stuck serving in Afghanistan—means you've cheated, or at least may as well have. You'll get vases thrown at you and what not. I THOUGHT I COULD TRUST YOU!!!! To most women (and men, frankly), there's a emotional component to cheating that's just as devastating, if not more so, than the physical component of it.
By the way, this will all get really vague once BIG FUCKBOT has perfected its first fuckable android.
So, I'm watching the Bears-Washington/Prince George's County's National Football Conference National Football League Professional Football Team play and the Skins have the ball on their own 1-yard line (naturally), there is a false start (naturally). They move the ball like 3 inches back. So, it's not really a penalty. Why is there a half-the-distance penalty? Why can't they move the sticks in the other direction and keep the line of scrimmage the same? So, instead of first down at the 10-yard line, the first down is now at the 15.
That seems perfectly reasonable. I think the reason they don't do that is because there's no equivalent solution for a goal line situation at the other end of the field. If your offense is at the one-yard line and the defense jumps offside, they can only move you forward half the distance. There's no "fairer" way of doing it. Although plenty of defensive penalties net an automatic first down anyway, which is like being penalized doubly, so I dunno. It seems like changing some of the penalty distance rules would be an easy, safe way of keeping leaguewide offensive stats from going batshit crazy.
Another, more diabolical solution would be to put the ball five yards back IN the end zone and force the offense to get the fuck out of there on the next play. I would pay good money (at least three dollars) to watch Eli Manning take a snap from the middle of the A in the MetLife Stadium endzone. The Vikings would still let him convert.
Do you think Subway gave RGIII an unlimited Subway card? I bet he has one but still opts to pay for Jimmy Johns.
I'm not sure he has a physical card, the way Bryce Harper has an unlimited Chipotle card in his back pocket. But frankly, RGIII doesn't need one. He could walk into any restaurant here in the D.C. area and get anything he wants: free food, booze, hookers, independent knee evaluations, etc. If he wants a free 12-inch BMT with double meat (the double meat option is such an important innovation), all he has to do is flash those pearly whites and Trish behind the counter is putty in his hands.
But you're right: There are better sandwich joints that RGIII can hit up. He probably goes to Potbelly. People around here are INSANE for Potbelly. I've seen Potbelly lines stretching down to the Carolinas. I mean, it's a nice sandwich, but let's not go nuts. BRO I TOTALLY WRECKED THIS "WRECK" SANDWICH BRO.
If you started training for it today, how long would it be until you could beat Floyd Mayweather? You have to figure that a lifetime of boxing won't do him any favors 30 years from now.
He's a couple months younger than I am, so I would have to hope that his CTE/Alzheimer's/Parkinson's/Cat Scratch Fever developed well before my karmic full body cancer did, and that's no guarantee. No amount of training could help an average middle aged male beat one of the greatest boxers of all time. He would have to be thoroughly crippled, both mentally and physically. I'm talking about being barely able to walk or talk or anything. Because remember: all it takes is one moment of clarity and one punch for a hobbled Floyd to DESTROY you. He may look ravaged by time and sitting on death's door. But all it takes is one twinkle in his eye... one of those supernatural moments where he snaps out of it and is once the more the GOAT... and that's it. You're done. I would need to wait 40 years and be armed with a blowgun.
How long can the winners of the Little League World Series continue to bring their win up as one of their top accomplishments? Will it help them get laid in college?
If you were an annoying teenage boy and you won that thing, you'd probably gloat about it for far too long, before realizing that the rest of the world gives exactly zero fucks. I know I would brag about it to the point of insufferability. When I was a kid, I bragged about being on the football team even though I never even got to play, that's how awful a kid I was. Half of all kids play sports just to brag that they play sports.
I'm terrible now in that whenever I see the LLWS on TV, I think to myself, "I bet those kids are pricks." That's completely unfair. I don't know those kids. And they're just kids. But still... I bet they're spoiled little bastards and daddy paid for all their fancy equipment! LITERAL GLORY BOYS.
Within your peer group, I say you get one year to lord your LLWS title over the rest of your school, to walk around in merch from the event and show off the custom Jostens championship ring that your horrible father/manager had custom-made for you and your teammates. You can probably impress little Sally in social studies class for that one year of title defense, before she stops letting you feel her up behind the Dairy Queen.
How do I tell my fiancé, politely if possible, to stop showing me her phone and every f’ing photo on Facebook and Instagram of her friends, their kids or their pets while I’m watching TV? I usually nod and pay half attention, just enough so as to not get in a fight about my lack of paying attention. Love her to death, but every day I hope she drops her phone and gives me a couple days reprieve.
I'm not sure what you should do about it because the whole "whip out the phone and assault people with your photos" move has already become an omnipresent custom. If I'm talking to someone and they mention that they have kids, they will ALWAYS—without fail—take out the phone and show me photos of those kids. Always. Sometimes you get a "Do you want to see them?" before the phone comes out (in which case you have to say YES anyway), but most of the time we go right to the family photo album. And I must reciprocate. "Your kids are so cute! Here are mine!" "Oh my God, your kids are ALSO very cute! We are both owners of cute children!"
I think the only way to stave off this photo barrage without looking like a dick is to lay a technological guilt trip on your loved ones. If you have a girlfriend who's showing you her phone all the time, you might be able to curb her by saying, "You know, I feel like I see more of your phone than I see of you, darling." That'll make her feel awful, and then she'll drag you out to a bed and breakfast for an entire weekend. No phones. No email. No nothing. Just you and her and 48 hours of analog enjoyment.
On second thought, you should probably just leave things as they are. It's like faking sick and ending up in a doctor's office.
What stuff do we do today without even thinking about it, but someday everyone will look back and say, "Holy shit, that was incredibly dangerous and unhealthy. I can't believe we didn't know better." People actually once believed that smoking was healthy, doctors prescribed opium even to kids, and Thalidomide was given to pregnant women to help with morning sickness. What do we do now that is that dumb? My bet is: microwaves cause cancer.
Drive our own cars. Three decades from now, when Google runs the planet and you're zooming around in your Chrome Extension Self-Driving Exoskeleton, you will bring up old tymey photos of human-driven cars on the internet and be like OH MY GOD. YOU MEAN WE ACTUALLY TRUSTED OTHER PEOPLE TO DRIVE THESE THINGS?! Over 25,000 people died in automobile accidents in America last year. (By comparison, only 362 people worldwide died in plane crashes in 2012.) And that's an improvement compared to 1972, when a record 54,589 Americans died on the roads. Driving is the scariest, dumbest thing we do. We suck at it. I know I do.
There are other obvious nominees, like playing football or drinking soda or living in Florida or having invasive surgery of any kind (I'm still waiting for the Star Trek IV technology where you just put a scanner thingy on your forehead and the cancer is magically eradicated). But I think the other big thing will be screens turning us all blind by age 50. I woke up in the middle of the night a while back and couldn't get back to sleep, so I went downstairs and turned on the computer and the fucking thing bombarded my eyes. Just one of those moments where you think to yourself: there's no way this is good for me. Ten years from now, everything I stare at will look like glowing leopard print.
Would you rather swim through a pool of period blood or once a year pass a large, painful kidney stone?
The period blood. It could have healing properties! You don't want kidney stones. It's right up there with butt worms in the "nightmare ailment" category. You don't want anything to do with them. I have spent the better part of my 30s in fear of kidney stones. They could form at any moment. One day, I could be walking along merrily. The next day, there's a fucking stalactite piercing through my urethra. I'd DRINK the pool of period blood before getting a kidney stone.
In other terrifying news, I had a friend who got shingles a while back. Turns out that getting shingles is unpleasant! I now live in fear of kidney stones and shingles and kidney shingles.
So "mudblood" is basically the wizard-world's version of the n-word, right?
That's right. And somewhere out there, a misguided Harry Potter devotee has used that as a REAL insult. I know it. I'd like to see videotape of it.
My son is on the cusp of his sports puberty, those formative years when he will develop a lifelong relationship with what will become HIS football team. I figure this period will last for about 3-4 years.
Since we don't have a natural geographical choice and have Sunday Ticket, I feel like I should direct him towards a team that will be a solid contender for the next 5-8 years. I think it's a balance between an excellent organization with a long track record, solid coach, and strong young quarterback, although it's difficult to find at team with all three. Which team should I direct him towards?
This assumes that you can successfully "give" your son a team to root for, even though team loyalty is usually something that develops naturally (or not at all) because your kid liked the team's uniforms, or because he had a friend who liked that team, or because Grandpa owns the Broncos. That's how it works. I was watching football with my son the other day and he said he liked the Lions because he liked blue because Thomas the Tank Engine is blue. And I let him roll with it. If that's his team, that's his team. It's not like rooting for MY team would serve him any better. We'll both be equally miserable. And in the same division!
But let's say you live in a magical fantasy world where children actually listen. I guess you could pick some historically winning team like the Pats or Steelers or 49ers or Packers. He'll be a bandwagoning little shit, but at least he'll be happy.
I remember my sports puberty well because I was growing up in Minnesota but not quite firmly on board with being a Vikings fan yet. I remember loving the Browns and Giants as well. At one point, I even had a Phil Simms ("That's the raht call, JEEM!") jersey. It wasn't even an official jersey. I think my mom bought a stock blue jersey and had SIMMS and #11 ironed onto it. This was right after Simms won the '86 Super Bowl, so I was clearly bandwagoning. Eventually, I settled on the Vikings, but it takes time. It's always good to have a reason for your fandom, to have some kind of emotional anchor. If you just pick the team at random, your kid may stop being a fan the second they go to shit.
Can you give me any direction on literature I can read about my wife's pregnancy? I'm struggling. First time parents, the little boy/girl is planned, we are happily married, both families are excited, etc. However, I am really struggling with everything regarding her symptoms and overall demeanor. I don't know why but I just have a hard time taking it on the chin over and over again with the emotional rollercoaster.
I would just leave her alone. Many pregnant women are in constant pain and/or discomfort, which means they hate everyone, including you. And the worst part is that when you try to play Mr. Gallant and offer them a pillow or something, they'll be like GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME. And you'll be like I'M JUST TRYING TO HELP, YOU WHORE! And then the discourse goes downhill from there. Anything you do is tantamount to smothering, so you're best off just backing away and speaking only when spoken to.
I remember I used to get all pissy at my wife when she was pregnant because she would be tired and miserable and I would be tired of her being tired and miserable. Which made me a dick, obviously, because I wasn't the one who had to carry a baby around on top of my bladder. I started watching Bridesmaids once when my wife was pregnant and she asked me to mute the part where they're all shitting and barfing in the bathroom.
ME: But this is the best part.
HER: I can't listen to it.
ME: Well then, just go in a different room or something. I can't mute it. I'd be ruining Paul Feig's whole VISION for the movie.
HER: (crying) You're being a dick.
You can both try to have a good attitude about the whole venture and still end up pissy and annoyed at each other, and that's because a man can NEVER know what it's like to be a pregnant woman, so there's no possible way to fully sympathize with what a pregnant woman is going through. You can try, but you're fooling yourself. You have no fucking clue, and they KNOW that you have no clue, which is what makes them want to have you killed. All you can do is back off, muddle through the shit times, and wait until the day when the misery of pregnancy is replaced with the misery of childrearing. AND THEN YOU WIN!
I am a college student and need a good Halloween costume. Problem is, I don't want my costume to be the 5000th Walter White or Ron Burgundy walking around. Is there a certain type of costume I should steer more toward if I'm trying to get laid?
The more willing you are to make an ass of yourself, the more women will appreciate your efforts, and the more YOU WILL TOTALLY SCORE BRO. That means avoiding the usual getup of Aaron Hernandez with bags of fake angel dust taped to your jersey. That's not gonna impress anyone. Much better to be the rolling skating Elvis in a rainbow wig. Then some fetching young lass will giggle at you, then you can take her back to your place, rip off the wig, and have her realize that you are ALL MAN. Sure, you spent 80 bucks more than you had originally planned, but it was totally worth it!
TRUE STORY: I went to a Halloween party once in college, looking to meet up with a girl that I had hooked up with a few times before. I showed up in some lame construction worker costume, and the girl turned me down and went home with another guy. He was dressed as a Smurf. I lost a girl to a Smurf. So there you go. You should dress up as a fucking Smurf, I guess. That guy was a bastard.
What happens if a fly ball hits the moon and lands in the outfield? I think it is fair territory as long as the moon is between the foul poles. Otherwise, it's like hitting a light pole or press box and bouncing back on the field. Others have argued that hitting the moon would mean hitting the ball out of the park, which is inevitably either a home run or a foul ball, but never "in play." That logic doesn't work, though, if the moon is directly overhead.
It depends on which ballpark you play in, because every ballpark has its own set of ground rules. One park may rule it a foul ball. Another may rule it a double. Another may say that the ball is in play once it returns to Earth. But come on now. If you get all hopped up PEDs and jack a fly ball to the moon, and then the ball somehow defies physics (THE BASEBALL GODS SHALL CHORTLE) and returns to Earth and somehow lands with pinpoint accuracy back in the outfield, you deserve to get credit for a home run. You hit it to the fucking moon. Anyone who wants that ruled a double is an asshole.
What if the Giants hired Rob Ryan to be their new Head Coach? I can't think of any quicker way for a city to implode upon itself. Even New York isn't big enough for both of them. Do you even think this is a remote possibility or just a pipe dream?
You couldn't find enough paper towels in the world to mop up all the jizz on the floor of the New York Post's newsroom if that ever happened. Hell, the Ryans could switch jobs every four weeks just to keep things interesting. But that's unlikely to happen. The Giants have already said that Tom Coughlin is coming back, and even if they change their minds, they're not hiring the Wolfman. They are not an organization that does "colorful" well. Literally. Look at their game pants. They're the color of a dead pet. They're hiring someone boring.
What percentage of Division 1 college football head coaches know every player on the team's first name? Without a name on the back or a number. Just lined them up without a helmet and went down the row.
Zero. When I was in school, they used to put your last name on a piece of tape and stick it to the front of your helmet so Coach would know your name, and half the time he'd STILL get it wrong anyway. They don't give a shit. They have tape to watch and boosters to wave off and assault charges to cover up. They don't have time for names. This ain't no damn cocktail party! They'll remember the names of all the good players. Like ol' Curtbush at running back. CURTBUSH IS A GAMER. But they're not gonna bother remembering the name of some eminently replaceable scrub.
They also never bother to learn the names of opposing players. They'll watch tape and be like, "This #45, this is the guy we have to stop," even when his name is right there on the back of his jersey.
One time, I was in a tape session and they were showing tape of that week's opponent, featuring a dude I went to high school with. And Coach said, "This guy... #99... they line him up all over the place."
"I know that guy!" I piped up, like a moron. "He's good!"
Coach turned to me and shook his head.
"He's not THAT fucking good."
I didn't talk in tape session again after that.
If indisputable evidence came out that Prince Charles ordered the murder of Princess Diana (obviously this would never come out and it would be covered up at every step of the way, but humor me), would there be a revolt that officially ends the monarchy in the UK? Also, would any armed forced take steps to end such a revolt? It's not like an end of the monarchy would have practical consequences, as the Prime Minister and Parliament already run everything....but damn if that wouldn't be interesting to watch from afar.
End the monarchy? Just when it's getting juicy? I THINK NOT. If there's anything British people love besides mayonnaise and warm beer, it's hating the royal family.
Email of the week!
I moved into a new house about 13 years ago. The movers were supposed to be at my house at 8:00am so I could have them pack all the boxes in the truck in time for me to be at the closing on the new house with the lawyers at 11:00am.
Well, the night before we got a dusting of snow...less than a fucking inch. At 9am I called the moving company and the owner said they were on the way. I called again at 9:30 / 10:00 and again at 11:00 the whole time the owner is saying that they're on the way ( being a real dick about it since the company is only 4 miles away ) . Now I'm late for the closing. I now have to re- schedule my closing and pay for one night storage of my shit and get a hotel room since I can't move in.
I bought the movers some lunch later that day and they let out that the whole time they were sitting in the office and the owner was indeed just being a dick, making fun of me and waiting for the "snow" to melt.
A couple of weeks go by and I realize that the moving company is only 4 miles away from my house. Being a distance runner, it is in range of my very early morning run (4:30 am because of my job ). So I scout out the place and see that the office front door has a mail slot and no overhead light. A couple of days later on my way up there again I scoop up one of those newspaper bags from a driveway (just an aside, as a runner one sometimes has to defecate on a run and at 4am the world is pretty much your toilet) as I feel shit rumblings in my colon. I get to the office, squat down on the side of the building and shit in the bag. I clean up, go to the mail slot, put the open end of the bag into the mail slot and my shit logs go rolling into the office foyer. Bombs away!
I repeated this a couple of times until they installed a motion light.
Yeah but I bet the owner wasn't the one who ended up cleaning your poop up. Don't you see you've created a horrible cycle of poop revenge?!
Drew Magary writes for Deadspin. He's also a correspondent for GQ. Follow him on Twitter @drewmagary and email him at firstname.lastname@example.org. You can also buy Drew's book, Someone Could Get Hurt, through his homepage.
Art by Sam Woolley