FunbagTime for your weekly edition of the Deadspin Funbag. Got something on your mind? [Email the Funbag](   

I was watching "Archer" the other night and they had Archer's mom stranded on a shitty fishing boat that was named CHUM GUZZLER. That's a fucking win. Onto the letters.


Do you ever pull off the road when it's just fucking pouring rain?

It was like a switch went off when I hit my 30's and my body suddenly stopped producing whatever substance I needed to not be worried about possibly hydroplaning into a fucking gas tanker (testosterone? Please, God, no). I know it's sort of shameful to admit, but I sometimes get totally terrified driving in a storm, especially on the highway.

Last fall, there was a massive rainstorm here, and I was driving on a two-lane state highway (speed limit 55) at about 45-50 mph when some asshole in a Scion or some shit came blazing up behind me and flicked his brights a couple times as if he wanted me to speed up. I felt my heartbeat quadruple, and I pulled off the road in a panic. What's worse is that I had to just sit there for a solid minute after he passed so that my pulse could slow down.

Jesus, I think I should take a baby aspirin just thinking about it.

I've never pulled over for rain. It's one of those moves that make a good amount of sense, but I have way too much foolish pride to go through with it. Also, every man on a road trip is a slave to the desire to make good time. What did I do the trip in last time? Four hours? FUCK THAT, I'M BEATING IT. If I'm pulling over and adding precious minutes to my arrival time, it better be because there's a turtle about to crawl out of my ass, or because my bladder is about to burst into a thousand pieces, or because I developed a sudden urge for Taco Bell and MUST pull over should the Taco Bell sign appear. Pull over for rain? Waste precious minutes ensuring that I don't die? NEVER. Can't be done.


I've had those rain drives where you go along for two hours and the rain just doesn't ever let the fuck up. You're like, "Well, it can't possibly stay pouring like this forever." BUT IT DOES! You can feel your eyes begin to melt into your brain. You scoot up in your car seat to stay alert. You practically press your fucking face against the windshield. The relentless patter on the car roof beckons you to nod off and go skidding down an embankment. Those are times when it would make a modicum of sense to go ahead, admit defeat, and just pull over for a second to regain consciousness. But I never do. And that is because I am retarded.

Dan K:

Have you ever had an in-grown face hair? Are these things common among normal folk? I got my first one a few weeks ago — and I'm not talking your run of the mill pimple. When I dug this sucker out the first time my findings were so gruesome and bewildering that I repressed and almost forgot the incident entirely. Today I got another one, and this time I played for keeps. This fucking mutant strand of hair had the girth of refillable pencil lead. A single hair I tell you! What gives?


I don't get ingrown hairs very often, but I get really fucking excited when it happens. Because, first off, I get to dig into my own skin with tweezers. It's like mining my own body, which is an odd yet gratifying feeling. Secondly, there's no telling what I might find. I'm always SHOCKED at long the hair is. I mean, you dig in there, you get a grip, and you hoist the fucker out, and it is INCHES long. Looks like the end of a coat hanger after an abortion. It's unreal. That's been growing in my body this whole time? Holy fuck. That is like the tentacle of an alien.

The thick hairs are even more disturbing. I feel like I'm turning into "The Fly" when that happens. I remember Geena Davis seeing a hair on Jeff Goldblum's back right after he gets out of the transporter, and she like, "Wow, that's really coarse!" And shit goes way fucking downhill from that moment on.

I also enjoy getting that little squiggle of pus erupting out. So cute. It's like pasta! Pusta!



I've got a big fireplace that'll warm 2 or 3 rooms, depending on how big I can get the fire. But, what made this fire particularly awesome was the fact that I had just spent a couple days cleaning out my home office and had a ton of old bank statements that I was intending to get rid of. Rather than shred them and then toss them (as a one-time victim of identity theft I am ultra-paranoid about it happening again), we decided to use the old statements as kindling. There is nothing more fun than throwing official-looking documents into a fire. Makes you feel like a super-villain. "Well, this document could save the orphanage. Too bad it'll never get to the authorities."

That is awesome. We gets cards for birthdays and shit and I always want to toss them into the fire and pretend I'm a guy trying to get over a really fantastic ex-girlfriend. OUR LOVE IS NOTHING MORE NOW THAN FINE ASH. I never got a chance to do that when I was younger. Just milk a fucking terrible breakup for all the drama and pathetic self-pity I could possibly muster. That would be fun as shit.


I can't get the Mrs. to go along with this, because she says it'll send a message to the kids that they can just throw anything in the fireplace. It's a good point, but still. There's nothing more enjoyable than throwing shit in a fireplace that isn't supposed to go into the fireplace, like the following items:

• Old wreaths
• Photos
• Clementine orange crates
• Magazines
• Hookers

The list is endless. I may be 33 years old, but I will never stop enjoying the act of burning shit. It's intoxicating. One day, when I have a billion dollars and the kids have moved out, I'm buying an outdoor fireplace. One of those big brass bowls you can stick on a patio. Then I'm going to drunk every night and just throw random shit into it. I can't wait. I'd buy a time machine now to get to that point. FIRE IS AWESOME.



Our office services have thoughtfully equipped our restrooms with those mondo 20,000+ sheet rolls of TP. Don't get me wrong, I'm all about having a plethora of single ply tissue at my disposal (especially after that 12:30 burrito) but the rub here is when you get dealt a roll with an uneven cardboard tube circumference. This may not pose a problem for normal people who gingerly gather the toilet paper a few sheets at a time, but I like to give it a good "price is right" spin so the streaming ribbon of TP doubles on itself for optimal hand and cheek coverage. This, in turn, causes a calamitous "clunka-clunka-clunk" as the roll enters a death spin, garnering much unwanted attention for your exit of the restroom. And the thing is, you have to wait until all the fucking sheets are gone! What's that, like 3 weeks? I'm not going to change my routine for a bum roll, can't we invent some kind of suspension system for these goliath toilet paper rolls?

Even worse, sometimes the roll gets so deformed that the roll stops mid-pull, so the TP instantly tears. It doesn't even tear at the perforated edge. Just a little piddly shit patch the size of your thumbprint. I've had some of those giant rolls not budge at all, then I have to dig into the giant plastic roll holder with my hand and painstaking roll the TP manually, like I'm Sisyphus pushing the boulder up the mountain. That's hard work!


A lot of those holders are cheaply made, so even if you get a relatively perfect roll and inner tube, the sides of the plastic case may press too hard against the sides of the giant roll, making it hard to pull. Or the TP is so thin and cheap that it tears from the simple act of pulling.

This isn't even the domain of giant rolls. Sometimes, I go into a shitter, and it's a normal roll of cheap toilet paper. But the holder is some piece of shit metal thing where the axle snaps into the side of the holder, only the metal gets warped and the fucking roll is frozen in place. I can't even roll it by hand.

These are tragic situations in the shitter, because like Sean I like giving the toilet paper a firm tug. LOOK AT HOW STRONG I AM! You should at least be able to walk into a public shitter and have a chance to do that.


/secretly wastes more toilet paper than the average woman

Bill Rawles:

When are you too old to drink chocolate milk? And when are you too old to make your own chocolate milk by mixing in Hershey's syrup?


Never. My kid will only drink milk if I mix Ovaltine into it. And she drinks whole milk, so what I usually do is mix a full cup of Ovaltine, drink the shit out of it, and then refill it halfway with a new batch. When you spend your whole 20's drinking skim milk, if any milk at all, that return to chocolate milk is fucking tremendous. God dammit, it tastes good.

When I was a kid, I used to put an unholy amount of Hershey's Syrup in my milk. Just an obnoxious amount. A quarter of the fucking bottle. The milk was black by the time I was finished. And I used to purposely leave it somewhat unmixed so that I knew I had a thick batch of pure syrup awaiting me at the bottom of the glass. Fat kids are creative like that.


When making a pizza yourself, do you actually leave a crust, or like me, do you pile toppings all the way to the edge only to have them slide off as soon as the cheese starts melting? This leads to me having to clean my oven every time I make a pizza, yet for some reason I can't stop doing it.


Parchment paper, my friend. Buy parchment paper. It will save your fucking life. Everything I stick in the oven now has a sheet of parchment paper underneath it. You'll never have to scrub a fucking cookie sheet clean again. It's glorious. Plus, I like unspooling the parchment and pretending that I'm about to draft an old historical document. WE THE PEOPLE and what have you. "And ye on the second day yon every June, a wench shall bring forth tankards of lager for all ye townsfolke."

I've gotten better at making my own pizza. Two things improve it immeasurably. One: Drizzle olive oil on top before you stick it in the oven. Two: Buy a Microplane and grate fresh parmesan reggiano over the thing before you stick it in the oven. It makes it extra nice.


Would you ever consider giving it a whirl with Roxxxy the sex robot or would that be way too weird?


If I were single and desperate? And it was gift? Sure. May as well. Somebody's gotta test the sexbot. May as well be me.

When I was in dipshit prep school, we had a Secret Santa thing every December in which we all exchanged gifts, only the gifts were supposed to be cruel and spiteful. I gave one kid a Tupperware filled with my own shit once. You get the idea. Anyway, some guys pitched in and bought some kid an inflatable sex doll. The kind with hole for sticking it in the mouth and anus and all that. Anyway, the kid who got it was insulted that he would be considered so desperate, so he immediately tossed the dummy on the floor of my room. And I kept it there, because I didn't particularly care about the state of my floor. Prep school dorm room floors are disgusting like that: sex dolls, old food, piss, spittle. Nothing gets thrown out. It's a garbage dump with a carpet underneath.

Now, I never had sex with the doll. And trust me, I'd gladly tell you if I had. I mean, I wrote in a published book that I banged a peach. It's not like I have anything to hide here. I didn't even bother to try fucking the doll, because the doll was extremely cheap and rubbing your penis against it was sure to be as painful as rubbing it against the inside of a balloon. And it didn't even look like a girl. It looked like a creepy mime doll or something. It wasn't like it turned you on it if you looked at it.


So I left it there and didn't pay it much heed. Cut to after Winter Break. My folks drive me up to school, help me take my shit up to my room, open the door, and there's Peggy Poundmouth sitting on the floor.

Now, if you were a parent, and you saw this, and your son told you he never actually used it, would you believe him? Of course you wouldn't. You'd assume the kid spent 20 hours a day painting that thing for all it's worth. And so, for the past two decades, my folks have been under the mistaken assumption that I spent a majority of my time at school banging the shit out of this doll. BUT I DIDN'T! I SWEAR! I WAS TOO BUSY JACKING IT IN CLASS! IT'S TRUE, MOM!


Have you ever had Famous Dave's Spicy Pickles? They are sweet pickles, which I usually don't like, put in spicy brine (which I normally love). The sweet/spicy ratio is a mind fuck.


I'm an odd human being in that I only like pickles on a McDonald's hamburger and in no other venue. I can't think of another food that has such specific limits on it in my repertoire, except for maybe raw tomatoes (love them in salsa, hate them in all other venues). No clue why I'm like this. I wish I just liked EVERY food. I hate having to worry about whether or not some fuckface put mayo on my sandwich.


I live in NYC, so I take the subway every day and those fuckers stop between stations ALL THE TIME. Each and every time this happens, I always immediately scan the entire subway car I'm in and picture which girls I would savage in which order if we were stranded there for the rest of eternity.

Then I scan the car of the dudes and rank them, relative to myself, in how effective a leader they would be for our group in this post-apocalyptic future I'm imagining (age, physical stature, ability to communicate in English* and intelligence* are all factors). Then, finally, I cross-rank what dudes might be able to sidle up to some of the sweeter chicks first and try to figure out which chick I would actually end up with. Obviously with this part, I try to filter out blatant homosexuals from both side of the gender equation.

I have to say, I tend to always put myself very near the top of the lists in both "possible leader" and "possible mates" categories. It's always awesome when I'm the clear #1 in both, but equally brutal when I realize that I'm in a car where I'd probably be ending up with the chunky brunette that doesn't brush her hair.


A long time ago, I went to the theater and saw a piece of shit Stallone movie called Daylight. If you've seen that movie, you know the premise is that the Lincoln Tunnel has been sealed at both ends, and the people trapped inside are trying to find a way out. Any time I enter any sort of underground tunnel, in my car or on the subway, I immediately think of this movie and picture myself having to lead a group of people out of a manhole with my trusty trunk flare. Then the "Judging Amy" chick and I go at it.

Then there's that fear that you WON'T find a way out. That you'll be trapped underground forever and forced to create your own sickening and inbred moleperson society. I saw a trailer once for a documentary called "Dark Days" about people who live in the NYC subway tunnels. There's a small number of them, and they've been living down there for God knows how long. Completely freaks me out. I used to go down into any NYC Subway station and imagine one of the molepeople running out of the tunnel and coming to feast on my brains.

By the way, like JimmyFax, I would completely envision myself as the alpha dog of a stranded subway car. The truth, of course, is that I would stand there like a fucking moron and do virtually anything anyone around me told me to do. We got stuck in the snow the other day on our road. Three people came to help. I ended up nearly running one of them over and launching shovelfuls of snow at the other two by accident. In emergencies, my IQ drops 85 points.



As a lifelong resident of Syracuse you missed a key opportunity this past weekend. You need to couple you 'milking of shoveling' with a beer for the joyful 'shoveling beer.'

It's the winter cousin of the "mower beer," I would guess.


Our Engineer's Pub at my Uni has head rests installed at each urinal as per the diagram... and no they're not nasty because no one pisses that high, they're the future.


Yeah, but then you got communal foreheads all touching that thing before it's cleaned once or twice a day. You ever seen the foreheads of some guys? They're repulsive. Sweat. Hair. Blackheads. Within an hour, your own forehead would be stuck to the thing like flypaper.


I'm starting to shop for an engagement ring for my lady. Any advice? (Other then get the damn thing on her finger as soon as humanly possible?) Thanks.


Yeah, ask her what kind of engagement ring she wants. Most women are nice enough to accept any ring you give them. If your lady throws your ring back in your face and demands something else, you probably don't want to marry her.

All that said, it doesn't mean you SHOULD just get her any ring you come across. Most couples, before a proposal, have talked about getting married. All around you, there are probably friends and relatives who are also in the act of getting married or engaged. Always ask your lady if she likes the ring your friend's new wife has or whatever. She'll always give you enough hints for you to figure out what to buy. You can even ask her cold about what kind of ring she wants. Don't go in blind. Having an idea of what she wants helps narrow the search considerably.

Also, go to Tiffany's or some outlandishly expensive place and ask the clerk for advice. They know their shit, much more than I did. They'll give you some pamphlet about the four C's and certification and all that crap. Then you can figure out what looks good and buy the ring someplace much cheaper. I went to Tiffany's and did this. The clerk knew immediately that I was a cheapskate and a moron.


ME: What about a ring with briquettes on the side?

CLERK: You mean baguettes?

ME: Yeah, the ones with the biscuits.

CLERK: Well, this one is an emerald cut with BAGUETTES on the sides.

ME: Oh, that looks nice. Okay.

CLERK: Should I ring this one up?

ME: Uh… duh… well, lemme just think about it for a little bit.

CLERK: I can hold this one.

ME: Uh… durr… there's no need for that. IHAVETOGONOWGOODBYE.


Two summers ago I was driving across the country on a monster road trip, and as I'm driving through Nevada at night, I passed several signs on a highway in Nevada that said "OPEN RANGE" and had a cow symbol on them. So apparently it's not required that farmers in Nevada fence off their cattle from the highway. I spent miles and miles seriously worried that a cow was going to wander out in front of me and I was going to smash into it at 70 miles an hour. Have you ever had to drive through OPEN RANGE territory?


No, but that would terrify me. I mean, I understand why it would be hard for some Nevada rancher to fence off 560,000 acres of land or whatever, but hitting a cow would be thoroughly unpleasant. Look at this video of a car clipping a fucking cow.

Tell me you wouldn't double shit your pants at the sight of a cow springing up in the middle of your shit.


President Camacho:

Have you ever been using a public urinal and noticed a pube just sitting on top of the urinal? How in the hell does it get up there?

Because I put it there. JUST TO MESS WITH YOU.


What if I'm ever sent back in time a few years, and the only way I can use my knowledge of the future and assume a normal life is to kill the version of me that's living in the past? How would I do it? Would I even have the guts to go through with it? I'd have the ultimate advantage of knowing the exact routine of past-me and when and where I'd be at all times. I'd also know all of past-me's weaknesses and how to exploit them. All of this has instilled me with the irrational fear that a future version of myself could be around any corner waiting to eliminate me.


But that makes no sense. If future you killed present you, there wouldn't be a present you. Much more terrifying is the prospect that someone close to you in the future will be sent to kill you.

I would be a particularly easy mark. I'm easy to spot, due to my size. I'm slow. My movements are predictable. And I'm completely oblivious to anything going on outside of my own head. My wife could be five feet away in a department store, screaming ta me to get my attention, and the hamster wheel in my head is still just spinning round and round, completely unaware. You could kill me in an instant.

I always wonder if people I know are spies, True Lies style. Especially neighbors. I have two neighbors I never see. They say they're "Doctors" who are "on call". I say they're in the Czech Republic as we speak, sipping martinis and shanking ex-KGB mercenaries for precious microfilm.



Dude, have you seen this show "Bait Car" on TruTV? This has to be the most racist show on TV of all time. Undercover cops in LA run out of an Escalade and leave the keys in the ignition in neighborhoods containing about 0 white people. The show is entertaining for about 5 minutes then you just feel sad for the poor bastards getting bamboozled. If you're going to get into a running car and steal it - NO ESCALADES.

That is WRONG and I don't like it. That's worse than Chris Hansen dangling altar boy ass out there for repressed pederasts. If you leave your Escalade running in a shitty part of town, you DESERVE to have it stolen. In fact, if you have an Escalade, you deserve to have it stolen regardless of whether or not you've left it idling. Filling up a monthly arrest quota by sticking out a bait car? THASS RAYCESS.



I work in Chicago and during the spring when the snow begins to melt off the buildings they post signs that say "Caution: Falling Ice". The first thing I always do is look up…..why? So I can get giant icicle in the eye? I try not to, but yet every time I do.

Some of the houses in my neighborhood have giant icicles hanging off of them. They look like fucking stalactites. I keep waiting for one to come undone and spike some poor guy right in the head. Never happens. Speaking of which:


After living in California for my whole life, I just moved somewhere that it snows a lot, and after seeing massive amounts of icicles, I couldn't help but think: Is there a more perfect murder weapon? If I was gonna kill someone I would definitely do it with an icicle.


Yeah, but icicles are more fragile than you realize. They're extremely brittle, and the tip breaks off at the slightest touch. Bruce Willis killed a dude with an icicle in Die Hard 2, but that was a movie, so I can't account for its true legitimacy as a deadly weapon.

I'd want that plastic gun John Malkovich made in In The Line Of Fire. The one with no metal pieces in it. Any time I board a plane now, I always think to myself, BUT WHAT IF SOMEONE BROUGHT ON THE MALKOVICH GUN?


For inefficient use of hygiene products, shaving cream has nothing on dental floss - I wrap that sucker twenty times around my fingers and only use 1/16th of a inch to actually floss (I only floss right before I go to the dentist so while the per-use efficiency is terrible, the per-day efficiency of the floss is still pretty good)


Use flossers. I fucking hate real floss. Granted, I enjoy winding string around my fingertip until it turns purple. That's a fun thing to do and I used to do it when I was a kid all the time. I didn't even floss after doing it. One time, I wrapped my whole finger and pretended I had a mummy finger. MUMMY FINGER GRAHHHHHHHHH!

That said, flossing with regular floss is shit. Little flossers prevent floss waste, and you get that toothpick on the other side for digging in to your gums and finding bits of old food. Sometimes, I get steak. It's delicious.



The wife and I have been married for almost nine years and are thinking about having our first kid. I'm mostly excited about the idea but some of your comments and comments by other emailers have me a little worried. What do you think? Bad idea?


Nah. Don't let us fool you. Half the fun of having kids is bitching about them.

The hard truth is that kids are fucking awesome. THEY BABBLE! THEY LOOK LIKE YOU! CHICKS DIG THEM! THEY SAY STUPID SHIT THAT'S FUNNY! The pluses far outweigh the minuses. Even when having kids SUCKS, and it does sometimes, it's worth it. Sometimes, I'll have to go in to feed the kid at 4AM or something, and I'll be sitting there in the dark, and my eyes will have adjusted to the dark, and the kid will finish eating, and he'll rest his head on my shoulder. Then, he'll pop up and give me a look. He'll just stare right at me. And looking at the kid in that moment… it's something. Like someone took a piece of your soul and crafted it into another living being. It's mindblowing.

Besides, you have nothing better to do. After a few years, you have nothing to talk about with the wife. But now, the Mrs. and I can go out to dinner and spend the whole night bitching about the kids. It's great.


One other thing: pictures. You'll love staring at pictures of your kids. Pictures are better than kids, because they don't make noise. Sometimes, the kid will be in the room annoying me, and I'll grab a picture of them, completely ignoring the actual kid. "Look at how cute that kid is. So smiley. So quiet. Much nicer than the insane midget currently clinging to my leg."


Taken at Southdale Mall in Edina, MN. Fuckers.


Fucking Edina. It's like a Range Rover parking lot.


Am I the only one annoyed with college alumni magazines? As fellow Colby alum, you probably know what I'm talking about. In the "class notes" section people write in about what's going on in their lives, marriages, kids etc. That's fine. But I hate the people who write in just to remind everyone how awesome they are. I am not impressed with your latest promotion or your summers on Nantucket.


I get an inferiority complex when I read those things. Most of my other classmates have done something useful with the decade they've spent out of school. They're like, real adults and shit. "Dr. Scottie Maxwell wrote in from Kenya to let everyone know his UNICEF project to cure malaria is currently making fantastic progress. They hope to abolish malaria and cure seven different strains of HIV within the next two years." Meanwhile, I write online about wiping my ass.


Don't you want to kill whoever invented red pistachios? I find them to be the most annoying thing ever. Regular pistachios are a great snack but adding that fucking red dye makes them so horrible. It doesn't enhance the flavor of the pistachio in any way. The only thing they add is that wonderful red dye that stains your hands and mouth and is impossible to get out.


Then why buy them? Are people putting these out at a dinner party you went to? Why would anyone do that when there are perfectly fine undyed pistachios available at any supermarket or convenience store?

Magic Titty:

I'm surprised you never mentioned the hero sequence where you're walking with your girl/wife, and some guy pulls a gun and tries to rob you. You act pretty cool, and even say something vaguely condescending to him, hoping to incite his ire. So he walks closer to you, trying to put the gun to your head to raise the threat level. BOOM. You reflexively jab his forearm upward and wrestle the gun from his hand and/or him to the ground.

Then, you either hold the gun to him while your newly 'even more attracted to you' girl/wife dials 911, or you simply let him go, with an unspoken warning, and drop the gun down the sewer like a world-weary badass.


Yeah, saving your woman is a huge fantasy issue. Sometimes, I imagine coming home to my house only to find terrorists have broken in and bound my family to a chair. Then, I must crawl down the chimney, dispatch the terrorists, free my family, then make frantic love to the Mrs. I picture this at least nine times a week.

One time, I was walking in New York with my wife when a 16-year-old kid jumped out in front of her and screamed AHHHHHHH, scaring her to death. He laughed, and this is the ONLY time in my personal history where I have reacted on impulse and done something mildly aggressive. I pushed the little shit into a nearby pizza parlor and grabbed his lapel. I was SHITFACED.

ME: Was that supposed to be fucking funny, you little piece of shit?

YOU: No.


YOU: I'm sorry. I'm sorry.


Then I walked out. The kid apologized to my wife again as I walked out. I felt like fucking Shaft after this. I have NEVER before or since bullied someone and succeeded, because I am a pussy at heart. I still think about that incident at least once a week. I now walk the streets praying for very thin teenagers to try and jump out and scare my wife.



I gave my girlfriend a trip to Vegas than when she returned, she proceeded to tell me she had a date with a co-worker and just wanted to be friends. I was devastated. To make things worse, I remembered I had bought her tickets to go see Jay-Z. I have no desire to go to the concert, but she does, so the question I…

Fuck her. Either go or burn those tickets in a fucking fireplace. And stop buying women expensive shit.



In our gym all our treadmills and ellipticals face a big mirror. This certainly helps in looking at boobies on the ellipticals, but mostly its awkward looking at people. One day after looking at all these people I started to wonder what the hell do they think about all this time? When I run on a treadmill, 10% of the time I'm thinking that I am winning the World Series for the Cubs in Game 7, and the other 90% of the time I
imagine I am the lead singer of the band that is playing on my iPod. Does everybody have these ridiculous fantasies to get them through a workout?

I do. I am a ROCK GOD when I'm on the elliptical. I've also, in the past, used the angles those mirrors to look at other people's asses without blatant staring. Like, say every wall in the gym has a mirror. You can look at the side of one mirror and get a reflection of a reflection of ass. And the owner of the ass doesn't know you've scoped out that angle. It's awesome.


I envision myself as a rock star on tour. I also picture myself as the one person who walks into "American Idol" and blows everyone away by being a TRUE rock star. All these other people here are fucking phonies. I AM THE SECOND COMING OF FUCKING COBAIN. And I don't even watch "American Idol". It makes no sense.


At what age in life do you tell yourself, that unless you quit your job and do a couple of cycles, you're never going to have the body builder physique and the goal is not to end up on the Biggest Loser?


Usually happens after college, when a job and marriage takes up all your free time. Back at school, there was time to work out three hours a day if you felt like it. Kids at school used to hang out in the weight room for fucking hours. Some of them didn't even lift anything. But you have that kind of time. Once the kids come, you quickly realize that much free time is gone for fucking ever.


What is your opinion on people who sign their e-mails with only one initial. I think it is incredibly pretentious on the whole but I make exceptions for the letters X, Z and Q for no reason other than I think they look cool and remind me of comic book characters.


The real problem is that emails don't have to be signed, because the subject line tells you PRECISELY who it is send you the message. There's no need for any salutation. It adds a dose of formality that makes you look like a tightass. I've gotten emails from friends, and they're written like actual letters. "Dear Andrew" and all that. Completely freaks me out. This is email. Talk like a normal person. That's what email is for. It's to replace talking.


Why don't they make Bailey's Irish Cream without alcohol, so I can enjoy it in the morning without having to go to work drunk? It's simply better than anything else you can put in coffee.


Why is the alcohol a problem? The real question you should be asking is why they don't make regular cream WITH alcohol.

I'm of the mind that, unless you like White Russians and Black Russians, no one over the age of 25 ever needs to drink Bailey's or Kahlua. That's the shit you drink when you're 14 and you're too much of a pussy to have acquired a taste for scotch.


When I was in grade school in New Orleans, they always served us milk in small 6oz bags. I'm not sure if it has something to do with the fact that the city resembles a 3rd world and maybe we were subsisting off of army rations. Anyways, it's not just Canadians.


That's grossly unfair. If you're a kid, the only drink that should come in bags is Caprisun. I could drink 50 Caprisun bags in a single sitting. They don't even have to be cold.

We got cartons of milk at my school, but they had always been sitting out for hours at a time. Thus, you'd get a sweaty box of warm-as-doodoo milk. I'd take the bagged milk if I could receive assurances of its coldness. I need my milk cold enough to cause my lips to shatter.


I just ate a bag of chips in one sitting, and not a 2 ounce bag or anything like that. We're talking a full 16 ounce thick-cut salt-and-pepper sack of greasy goodness. The question is - should I be proud of this, or ashamed? My wife is looking at me not with the combination of awe and lust I'd hoped for but rather a mixture of horror and disbelief. Still, huge bag. Thoughts?


Well, I for one am proud of you. Proud and jealous. You didn't even hide the bag in the garbage can. You crushed that bag for all to see. Stand tall, good sir.


Why does NBC continually insist on referring to the site of the 2006 Olympics as Torino? They took place in Turin. Did they refer to 2004's host city as Athina? No; so why start with Turin?


Because Italian is the one language where people get a real hardon for native pronunciation. Watch Giada's show sometime. In between exposing her heaving breasts, she over pronounces every fucking syllable of every Italian word. "And now you add your REE-A-COAT-AHHHHHH cheese." Easy, people. You sound like you're in an Olive Garden commercial. (Flubby would like to note that Giada was born in Rome and is, you know, actually Italian. A fair point.)


The remotes for any hotel TV are just a waste of time. The delay on most of those things from button-press to television response is a solid 4 seconds, which in the global and eternal sphere of things isn't long, but when you're trying to turn down the volume or turn the channel off of "The View" feels like an eternity.


Also, the hotel TV always resets to the fucking hotel in-house channel when you turn the TV off, and that channel is always 75 decibels louder than the other channels. You could rouse a corpse with the audio feed from these stations.

I hate these stations. No one watches them. Ever. No one sits down and says, "Hey, this looks good! Let me watch this for the next 75 minutes." No, it's always WHERE THE FUCK IS ESPN AND HOW QUICKLY CAN I GET TO IT?


My wife does this with photos: I need to see them on the digital camera, then on the computer after she uploads them, then again when the prints arrive in the mail.




I had an ex who performed the "sneak into the bathroom while I'm showering" move on me, ripped the curtain open and yelled "BOO". She scared the shit out of me (I have the same nightmare you do) and ran off laughing. I proceeded to storm out of the shower completely naked (obviously) and covered in a mix of soap, shampoo, and water and proceeded to pin her to the floor in the living room and dry myself off on her (that last part sounds more sexual than it was).


You were justified. I fucking hate people jumping out and scaring me like that. I get unreasonably pissed after the fact.

My old boss, who I otherwise really like, had this thing at the office where every day, out of the blue, he'd take a ruler and smack it against the file cabinet, just to scare the piss out of everyone. One time, I threw a mug at him. He didn't quibble with the reaction. I hate that shit.


I thought you guys may have a special place for the 'I personally suck at life, but make up for it by rooting for diverse geographic sporting champions'. via Blues/Red Wings game on Versus 2/9/10.


Oh, what a piece of shit.


Do you know of any surefire hiccup remedies that don't involve alcohol?

Hold your breath as long as you can. Exhale very slowly. Inhale very quickly. Repeat.



When I had fire warden training for a New York office building a few months ago, a former fire captain told us that most elevators these days run in tracks in the elevator shaft. If for some reason the cables in an elevator were to snap, you would descend two floors, then a safety mechanism in the tracks would stop you from falling further. He also said that elevator travel is one of the safest forms of travel in the world.

Well, that kills the fantasy now, doesn't it?


This crossed my mind as I was perusing and unwittingly losing $50 on the Colts (fuck you Hank Baskett). Several of the prop bets for the Super Bowl were in regards to how many times the television broadcast would show Archie Manning or that whore Kim Kardashian, giving an over/under for each person. If you were the director of the broadcast, couldn't you place a HUGE bet on the over/under and win yourself a big score?


Yeah, I don't get that either. They do that with Oscar wins too. If you were a PriceWaterhouseCoopers exec, wouldn't you bet a large but not suspicious amount on the winners if you KNEW them? I fucking would. I'd be the Tim Donaghy of men who carry around Oscar envelopes in metal attache cases.


My 2-year-old is obsessed with showering, and he loves showering with me. The other day, I was shampooing (my eyes were closed) and I felt a tiny hand around my manhood. I looked down, and he was smiling, and shouted, "Daddy's peepee!" Is that wrong? I didn't get any wood, FYI.


Nah. At some point, you get over yourself and realize that, with babies, bits get touched. You have to wash your baby's penis. Your kid will stare at your junk when you pee. It's just one of those things. It's easy to go nuts and be like ZOMG MY SON IS GIVING ME A HANJ! But I think you're more mature than that. OR ARE YOU? BABY HANJ BABY HANJ!


Have you ever been sitting down somewhere (at a desk, driving, etc) and you rip a fart that somehow maneauvers up around and past your ballsack? It happens to me all the time and it is always oddly delightful. Also, what would you suggest I call that when it happens?


"The Submersible."


I had the misfortune of going to a catholic elementary school and was subjected to many odd regulations. One of the more odd rules was that during recess, we weren't allowed to go back inside the building, not even to use the bathroom. So when nature inevitably came calling, we weren't allowed back inside, so I'd sit down on the ground just so I wouldn't poop myself by making any unnecessary movements. What I found was that by sitting on the sun-warmed pavement, the horrible feeling of having to poop would go away in a minute or two and would buy me at least another fifteen minutes of not having to poop. I told all my friends about this 'miracle cure' and before I knew it, every boy on the playground would be sitting on the warm pavement when they had to crap. Trust me: one day, this will save you from crapping your pants in public.


Yeah, but it's February. What if I have to avoid shitting my pants now?

The pavement is such now that I'll drop something on the pavement under the car, and I'll just leave it there because I know there's no way to retrieve it without taking a knee and getting the knee of my jeans covered in mud and slushy shit. No poop deterrent there.


I was going through open mailbag and saw the post about zombies. The idea of staking out a stadium doesn't have shit on my place. Motherfuckin Wal-Mart distribution center. Let's just look at we got going here. In order of importance (except for the outsourcing at the end): booze? Check. Prescription drugs? Cha-Ching! Guns? Boom goes the dynamite!!! Food? Check. Bad ass Electronics plus video games and movies? Hell fucking check.


If there is no zombie war, that would also be a great place to take hostages. Give it some real consideration. Arm yourself, walk in, take a few hostages, and live like a Branch Davidian for a month. That could be awesome. All the female hostages might get Stockholm Syndrome and fall in love with you. I'd totally hijack the place if I were you.

FACT: Any store or bank I walk into, I immediately visualize a man with a gun running in and taking hostages. I know damn well that, should I ever be a hostage, I would be shot because I would ask to go to the bathroom so much. They'd Daniel Pearl me in five seconds flat.

Arkansas Fred:

Are you terrible at cutting Saran Wrap too? Do you always end up with either way too much or embarrassingly little? Is this a guy thing? Or am I an idiot? Likely both?


It horrible. I can't cut it for shit, and I always end up having to pull the last part off the roll, giving me this distended piece of plastic shit on the end.

Furthermore, my wife goes to wrap a plate or a bowl, the Saran Wrap clings to like a fucking koala bear. When I the EXACT same thing, the wrap doesn't stick at all. Falls right off and blows away on to the floor. Or the shit double over and sticks to itself before I've even reached the bowl. Fucking Saran Wrap. MAKE ME LOOK BAD WILL YOU?!


Why not make a urinal that has one of those targets like you see at a carnival/boardwalk with the water pistol? Besides being highly entertaining, hitting the target should reduce any splash back. Think about this setup at a sporting venue. You have the urinals with targets all spread out along a wall and above each urinal is some sort of gauge. A line of guys step up, there is some sort of starting buzzer, and then the race is on. Besides the possibility of winning and being crowned champion of that bunch of dudes, it should speed up the whole bathroom process in general.


Speed it up? Good God, I couldn't handle that pressure. It would take me WEEKS to get a stream out.


My roommate decided he wanted to cook dinner for me and the other guy we live with last Tuesday. He has never done this before. Well apparently he decided to prepare the raw chicken, not wash his hands and touch everything in our fucking apartment. Now only me and the other roommate have had the fucking ebola virus living in our large intestines for 3 days. My question is whether or not I should shit on his pillow. PS I wrote this on the toilet.


Raw chicken gives you salmonella. You need to go to a hospital. THEN shit on his pillow.


What is the threshold level of fart strength before it becomes socially acceptable to acknowledge what just happened to a stranger in a bathroom?


Never. Ever. You have to take it. That's just fair. Otherwise, men would become self-conscious about farting in a public bathroom, then they'd let a silent bomb go off in the office instead, and then terror would reign. You don't talk in the bathroom.

There is nothing worse than being in a public bathroom, taking a nice quiet shit, when two assholes who know each other barge in and decide to have the longest fucking bro-chat in the history of bro-chats right there in the bathroom. "DUDE, DID YOU FUCK HER?" "YEAH BRAH! SHE WAS FAT BUT I TOTALLY FUCKED HER ANYWAY! SHEAH!"



I have an interesting high school story for you. It begins in English class in 11th grade (1998). It was a slow day and the teacher had granted us a reading day (basically shut the fuck up and leave her alone).

I was sitting towards the back of the class reading a book. All of the sudden the girl in the row next to me taps me and another guy in the row and points to the guy in front of her and says he just got finished jerking off. I immediately look at him and notice he appears to be sleeping with his head on his desk. I tell her she is full of it and go back to what I was doing.

She insists to both of us that he was definitely jacking it. Of course this news starts to spread around the classroom like wildfire. Out of nowhere the suspect gets up and walks out of class.

The young lady who noticed it all proceeds to explain to everyone how he had his hand down his pants and would repeatedly look over his shoulder at her (she had large breasts) while jerking it. The class is in an uproar at this point and the teacher is wondering what all the commotion is about. No one had the heart to tell her. A few minutes later the bell for lunch rings and within 20 minutes the entire school has beard about the jerk session that occurred in English class.

Apparently after lunch one of the administrators walked into the classroom and had to explain to the teacher what had happened and remove the desk where the guy had been sitting. He was suspended for three days for leaving class without permission. He came back after suspension and lasted a couple of days before dropping out.