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The Deadspin Guide To Mutual Oral Copulation

Illustration for article titled The Deadspin Guide To Mutual Oral Copulation
FunbagTime for your weekly edition of the Deadspin Funbag. Got something on your mind? Email the Funbag.

I took my kids to the pool when I was on vacation last week, and at the end of our day splashing around I dragged my son into the locker room to shower him and change him. So he sits down and starts taking off his bathing suit, and when he stands back up, I hear this big THUD on the bathroom floor. I turn around and there's a dump the size of a fucking softball sitting right on the bathroom floor.


"Deddy, I pooed!"

"You're goddamn right you did!"

Drew Magary writes for Deadspin and Gawker. He's also a correspondent for GQ. Follow him on Twitter @drewmagary and email him at


I looked into the lining of his suit and it was stained milk chocolate brown. Then I scoured the locker room frantically to make sure no one else was around. My son started to bend down to pick up the shit softball.


I grabbed a bunch of paper towels and scooped the turd up like a piece of dogshit. Ever pick up a turd and feel its warmth through the paper? So, so horrible. Then I threw that shit in the trash and spent the next five minutes rinsing the poop out of his bathing suit lining. And now, every time my son takes off his bathing suit, I'm now terrified that another massive lump of fudge will come tumbling out.

All that said, I had a lovely vacation. Time to get back to business. Your letters:


When you're taking turns with a lady going down on each other, is it better to be serviced first or last?


It's kind of like eating lobster. Some people eat the tail right away, just in case there's a nuclear holocaust and they want to make sure they eat the best part of the lobster. (NOTE: I'm not here to start a lobster flame war. I know some people like the claw better than the tail, and that's fine). Other people save the tail for last because they possess a certain amount of patience that I sorely lack. Fuck all that, I'm going tail first.

Which is why I suggest that you get your business taken care of first before reciprocating with Melissa Leo. Again, there could be a nuclear war right after you hop into bed, and you'd hate to spend your last few moments regretting not getting blown FIRST. Also, you want your partner's best effort at oral pleasure, and that effort never comes AFTER they've gotten their rocks off. Most people, after orgasming, just wanna clean up and get a snack. The last thing they wanna do is hang around in bed and put in the manual labor needed to get their partner off. And for the person getting serviced second, this arrangement blows because the person going down on you is doing so out of obligation, and not out of sheer eagerness to indulge in blowing you. That's no fun. I WANT YOU TO WANT TO BLOW ME.


Also, if you go down on a lady first, there's no telling how long you'll have to keep at it. Could be five minutes. Could be until 2015. You just don't know. By then, you may need to be outfitted with a neck brace and an IV bag. So get that blowie out of the way, and then get to work.

One last thing: I know it seems like a 69 would be an ideal solution to this problem, but it's not. One of the dirty little secrets of life is that 69ing is overrated. The real joy of having someone go down on you is that you don't have to do anything. You can just sit back, relax, maybe even read a good book. But with a 69, you don't get to sit back. You have to toil at the other end while trying to relax enough to get off. It's not easy.



Even better it was an above average looking girl. Boyfriend's car and she doesn't know what it means?

Illustration for article titled The Deadspin Guide To Mutual Oral Copulation

I wish that car had Bama plates.


How come no pro sports team has hired a hot female GM to attract free agents by sleeping with them?


Because you don't need to do that if you hire a normal GM who's shrewd enough to know what kind of hooker each prospective free agent prefers. Why risk everything on your seductress GM if you can outsource that duty to Eastern European escorts? That's just common sense. I know some men are highly attracted to powerful women, but I think a decent stable of hookers would be enough to offset whatever kind of lovin' Amy Trask is willing to offer. Man, I really wish I were a free agent. What did Ray Allen give up to go to Miami? $9 million? Pat Riley must have trotted out Chasey Lain and Jill Kelly on him.


This guy lives in my condo building and has 3 Guns N' Roses stickers on his Mercury to compliment his AXL license plate. I'm pretty sure he drinks Night Train and finger blasts strippers every night.

Illustration for article titled The Deadspin Guide To Mutual Oral Copulation

But look at the right justify on that plate. Do you have to pay extra to get your font centered?



At first I thought the Charmin bathroom tissue commercials featuring bears cursed with the dreaded tissue-shrapnel-ass-clinger syndrome (TSACS) was the most ridiculous marketing storyline ever. Is TSACS really a problem for the average American asswipe consumer? What a stupid fucking ad…or is it?


It's a big deal for the female population, because ladies don't like getting toilet paper lint jammed up in their hobbyholes. And since most toilet paper is purchased the lady of the household, Charmin has wisely chosen to advertise to them, and not to you.

TSACS also presents a problem for men in the form of extreme dingleberries. A little bit of stray TP lint can get lodged in your crack hairs. Then, as you walk around, that bit of lint rolls around between your cheeks and picks up all kinds of new hairs, eventually growing to the size of a ball of twine. Now, if you're the sort of person who enjoys plucking dingleberries (I know you exist), this is a selling point. But for those of us who don't like getting into the shower and then yanking out 500 ass hairs at the root simultaneously, we need lint-free toilet paper.


It's ironic because, in my experience, Charmin is the fucking WORST toilet paper for ass lint. It's very soft, and very luxurious, but that paper sheds like a goddamn collie. Beware of Charmin.


If they mastered cryogenic freezing and you could set to wake up at any point in the future, granted no kind of apocalypse has happened, how much time would it take for the world to be completely unrecognizable? 200, 300 years? I know a lot has changed from 100 years ago but how much will really change 100 years from now?


It depends on your definition of "unrecognizable." I assume you mean that the USA would no longer exist, and that all the little children would be forced to play in the Hunger Games for Skynet or some shit like that. To be safe, you'd probably want to jump ahead 1,000 years. Think of the progress of man from 1012 until 2012. If you lived in 1012 and you froze yourself until today, you'd have your skull blown. I think 1,000 years would do the trick. All the countries would be rearranged. A nuclear war would surely have broken out (FINALLY!). And people themselves would look entirely different. They'd be more racially blended. They might be significantly larger due to overeating or advances in modern steroids. They'd be computerized in some way. They'd almost be an entirely new species. They might even have horns, which would be cool. The world would be so different from today, you'd probably have a nervous breakdown.

I read a book called Atlantic that's about the history of the Atlantic Ocean. And one of the recurring themes in the book is how long the Atlantic Ocean itself will continue to exist, roughly 250 million years. By contrast, the books says, mankind won't last anywhere near that long. We probably won't even last another ten thousand years or so before the Earth is rendered uninhabitable, be it by natural means or manmade causes. This completely freaked me out. I know I won't be around when the Earth decides to swat us all away, but that doesn't make it any less disturbing. We're NOTHING in the lifespan of this planet, and I don't like that idea. I'd like to think we had more of a lasting impact than that, which is why I never recycle plastic bottles anymore. RIGHT INTO THE OCEAN YOU GO!



Better punctuation, an ellipsis (…) or the em-dash (-)?

The em-dash is probably better, but to put one into a Word document, you have to click on INSERT and then scroll down to SYMBOLS to get to it. I don't know about you, but this causes my computer have a goddamn seizure. A little dash ruins Word's shit. Goddamn Word. I could correct all this by simply using a keyboard shortcut for the em-dash, but I'm too lazy to be that lazy.



Found this frankencheeto inside the Munchies bag. I think it's a combination of all the different chips inside. Ate it and felt sick for two hours.

Illustration for article titled The Deadspin Guide To Mutual Oral Copulation

I'd pay good money for a Munchies bag that had no pretzels in it. That shit is just filler. I know what you're trying to pull, Frito Lay. This country has a pretzel surplus, and corporations keep trying to find way to burn it off.



If you could choose one member of the '92 Dream Team to fellate you, which would it be? Is it the one guy for whom you have no respect and who is a bitch (Christian Laettner)? Or do you just make it Jordan because he's Jordan? Let's say you have to pick one.


I think Jordan would be a biter. Too aggressive. I choose Barkley, strictly for the comedic value. And because he's got a big, sloppy mouth. Lotta room to work in there. "This dick tastes TURRIBULL." Only a daredevil would choose Magic.

By the way, if I'm forced to reciprocate, I choose David Robinson. He seems clean and in good shape.



I dare you to go to the produce aisle at the grocery store and select the very first piece of produce you pick up. I dare you to do this because it's impossible to do so.

People pick up and discard produce all the time and yet, when you do the same and find that special onion and think "This is the one for me", chances are great that someone right before you looked at that very piece of produce you selected and thought "This onion is complete dog shit!"

I've tried this a couple of times and failed spectacularly.

The worst thing is when you see a very nice looking piece of fruit and you think to yourself THAT'S THE ONE. Then you pick it up and on the other side is a month's prescription of penicillin. So, so disappointing. I try and be choosy about my produce, and yet somehow I always arrive home with one rotten peach in the bag. How did it get in there? I swear I vetted all of them thoroughly. Someone must have sabotaged my bag.


They have a digital produce scale at my local grocery store and I use it all the time because I'm a vigorous young go-getter. And I always try to weigh and sticker my produce as quickly as possible, because I'd hate to think that I was slower than the clerk. I want to outrace the imaginary grocery clerk who would otherwise be weighing my produce, and I refuse to lose. By the way, waiting for other people to use the produce scale is AGONY. The code for peaches is 4030, you stupid lady. EVERYONE ELSE KNOWS THIS.

HALFTIME! (from reader Richard)


At the horrible financial institution I work at, we have a Bento Box Day every Wednesday. Bento Box Day consists of the company providing us with mediocre Chinese food for a cheap price that everyone rushes to consume because we are sheep. Being the severly depressed cubicle monkey that I am, I quite look forward to this and in particular, the cashew chicken Bento Box.

A few weeks ago I hear some upper management douche talking to the guy that does the ordering and he specifically says, "Oh we don't need so many cashew chicken boxes, no one eats them, order more Special Beef boxes". Now a week later, there are no more cashew chicken bento boxes and just a bunch of fried beef sh*t. Do I have the right to walk into this moron's office and remove his entrails with a samurai sword?


You do. No one should ever be denied their right to a lukewarm box of cashew chicken. You should sue. Or you should walk out of the building and go to Panda Express. Either/or.

I worked at a place once that had a cafeteria with a hot buffet. And once a month, the hot buffet had dumplings. They weren't good dumplings, but you could load up 70 of them into a container and pay just four bucks for them. I loved cafeteria dim sum day. Every time the monthly menu came out, I would eyefuck it to find what day the dim sum fell on. And I would make certain to be in the office that day and not be out at a meeting or sick or on vacation or ANYTHING. Never mind that this was in New York, with any number of good (and cheap!) Chinese restaurants right nearby. I was somehow fixed on my office's terrible dumpling buffet. I used to bring my suitcase full of shumai up to my office and the whole floor would smell like soy sauce for a week. I would DRINK the remaining soy sauce and dumpling juice out of the container. My officemate was not amused.


One more thing about bento boxes: They're remarkably seductive. Anytime I can go to a restaurant and order some kind of box lunch, I do so. You mean I get noodles AND soup AND sesame beef AND rice AND a few slices of cucumber? GIMMEGIMMEGIMME. I'm powerless to resist.


Drew- what would you do if you found the sword?

Illustration for article titled The Deadspin Guide To Mutual Oral Copulation

Jimmy Musto ain't gettin' it. I'm taking the sword and taking my rightful claim to the throne of Thressaly.


My wife and I are thinking about finally having a child. This is something that, before a few days ago, brought me great joy. However, the other day I was thinking about all the things I would need to explain to a child to help them understand the world. How would I describe the Holocaust? How do I explain the Disco Era? I'm ready for the easy stuff, but I feel I need to have all the answers in order to be a good father. As a father yourself, how do you deal with it?


So far, I've only had to handle a handful of touchy topics with the six-year-old. The obvious one is how babies are made, which is an easy question to skirt if you've watched enough political debates.

HER: How does a baby get in Mommy's tummy?

ME: Well, Daddy and Mommy get together and put it in there.

HER: But how?

ME: It takes a lot of love!

I also explained to my kid that Whitney Houston died because she "Took too much medicine", which I think is a fair watering down of "the lady snorted her medicine cabinet and then went bathtub snorkeling." I am overjoyed that 9/11 has yet to come up. Because I know that's coming. Every parent has to have a decent 9/11 explanation ready to go, and I've got nothing so far. "You see, once upon a time, there were these bad people, and these bad people trained very hard on the monkey bars, just as you do!"


The other day, the kid was listening to some piece-of-shit Nicki Minaj song and she starts asking about bad words in songs. And she asks me if I can teach her some bad words. Now, you'll find no better teacher of bad words than me. So I went to my wife with a revolutionary proposal:

ME: I have an idea. Tell me if it's stupid.

WIFE: I think I can already guess.

ME: The girl is asking about bad words. What if, instead of letting her learn it from Johnny Slapdick on the playground, WE taught her all the bad words ourselves? And we taught her how to use them responsibly?



ME: You know how French kids are less likely to be drunkies because their parents give them wine when they're super young? (NOTE: None of this is verified). We could do that with the f-bomb. We could control that shit. Doesn't that make perfect sense?


WIFE: No. That's insane.

I still think the idea had legs. Who better to learn the word HANDFUCKER from than your old man?



I was taking a piss at a Walmart the other day and noticed that the automatic flushing sensor looks a lot like a camera. This got me thinking: what if establishments were secretly taking pictures/recording men's junk at the urinal?

Now, why would anybody want pictures of random pube farms or shriveled up man-noodles? Statistics. Perhaps big brother is gathering field data on the number of times the average man shakes his dong after peeing.


Christ, now I can never piss in front of an autoflush again. I bet some German pervert at Kohler installed cameras in every model without telling his bosses, then retires to his penis control room every night and beams in feeds of hairy dicks from the world over. THAT IS REPULSIVE.

By the way, you should always beware of any object that has a tiny glowing light. Criminals have set up ATM skimmers that take photos of your fingers punching in your PIN code. And hackers can bust into your computer and stare at your toned and nude body using your own webcam. So fucking scary. That's why you should do what I do and not think about it at all. Just get drunk and live your life in blissful ignorance of evil people trying to rob you and sell photos of you jacking it onto your keyboard.



Do you think the world would smell any different today if no one had ever farted in all of history?


Even cows? Because cows spew enough methane out of their asses to influence global warming, so that has to count for something. I think the answer to your question is probably no, because a fart represents such a miniscule amount of Earth's entire atmosphere. And the world itself doesn't have just one smell. It varies by region. And even when taken in historic aggregate, farts can't possibly override the numerous other factors that go into the smell of a region: the sea, the topography, the wildlife, etc. If you've ever lived in the Northeast and traveled to, say, Florida, you know that the air in Florida smells different. It even tastes different. Probably from all the zombies and hooker serial killers. Your little taco toot isn't gonna overpower that.


I recently found out that my roommate wears gloves while lifting at the gym. Besides looking like a complete meat-head douchebag, he purposely deprives himself of picking at the callouses on his hands. What type a person does this?


Were they fingerless? Because they were probably fingerless.

Back when I rode the bench for my college football team, I used to lift weights a lot. And when you're lifting weights as a teenager, you get a warped idea of what looks cool and what doesn't. I thought weight belts and fingerless lifting gloves looked AWESOME. So I bought both and wore them to the gym every day and I felt so BADASS. Now, reality was the harsh opposite. I was a fat kid rocking steakhead gear. But when I put those gloves on, OH I FELT SO POWERFUL. I may have even posed in the mirror with them and stuck my hand out, pretending I could shoot lightning out of my gloves, but I can't confirm that. Anyway, working out like that can give you reverse body dysmorphic disorder: You think you look better than you actually do. So take pity on your friend: he's mentally ill.


Also, ever get one of those new bench press bars, where the grip is extra spiky? Goddamn, that shit hurts.


Do you get a rush of adrenaline when you're able to spell out an entire word using only one hand on the keyboard? I do.


Try doing it with a baby in your other hand. WHAT A RUSH.


I'm writing this from the women's bathroom. SO RISKY. Doing work in here.

As far as I'm concerned, all single occupant bathrooms are unisex. If there's a women's room open to use and I gotta go, I get in and do my business as quickly as possible so that no woman is ever the wiser. And if I come out and there's a woman waiting, I just stare at the floor and run like a pussy.


By the way, any time I'm waiting for a single-occupant men's room and a woman comes out, I am LIVID. That bitch! How dare she!

Time for your email of the week.


The brake light on the driver's side of my car has a short and only works sporadically. Tonight, while sitting at a stoplight during my midnight drive home from work, a cop loitering next to a road block noticed the dead light. His car came alive and proceeded to turn around just as my stoplight went green. Did I resign myself to a ticket for a bullshit infraction handed out by a bored policeman who probably gets a fascist hard-on each time he has the opportunity to ruin someone's night? No. I made a left and darted in front of a conveniently placed street sweeper that was lumbering through the bar district.

I checked my mirror and noticed the policeman flying through the now-red stoplight where he first saw me. He wasn't giving up, and the street sweeper could only cover me for so long. My back was against the wall, I tell you! So I careened right at the next light, pulled into the closest parking spot, killed the lights and calmly exited the car. As I walked down the sidewalk with my hands in my pockets - hiding in plain sight - the cop pulled alongside me and kept pace for a few seconds, hoping to IDENTIFY HIS WHITE WHALE. After awhile, he sped off and I calmly walked around the block back to my car, vindicated. Smug. Fully erect. Did I feel like Ryan Gosling in "Drive?" Yes. Is my life depressingly boring? Absolutely.


That is so bold.

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