It's a blockbuster funbag today. We go right to your letters.
The wife and I had a fight the other night over what to call my son's penis. This was prompted by my three-year-old daughter asking what that was on our 1-year-old son in the bath. My wife told my daughter it was his wee wee. I thought this was absurd and told her is was his doodle, which then led to the fight. Neither of us could give any real arguments over why we preferred the slang we did but we were both adamant that we each had the superior one. So Drew, I ask you what should a one-year-old's penis be called?
I have been told by the Mrs. (who read it in a magazine somewhere or something) that you're supposed to call your kids' genitals by their proper names. So, if you have a boy, you're supposed to call it a penis. If you have a girl, you're supposed to call it a vagina. And if you have a Jamie Lee Curtis, you're supposed to call it Wanda.
The idea is that, by referring to anatomic parts correctly, it's easier to teach kids that their genitals are private parts that only THEY should be allowed to touch. Or something. I don't really buy that. I don't think calling it a penis will help prevent Scoutmaster Lance from trying to put a marshmallow on top of it. I called it my peepee when I was a kid, and that seemed to serve me well. I know it's made me laugh for the past 33 years whenever someone says it. But it's hardly the only way to refer to a little boy's dicksprout. Weewee and doodle work. Donger. Dingaling. "Your thing." "Your little flapper." "Your naughty bits." "Your special purpose." "Your squirt gun." I don't think there's a wrong way to go. I certainly don't think it's anything you need to fight over. Dick names are always fun, no matter where you land.
I'll tell you this. I'm far more comfortable using those words than the proper terminology. Try teaching your four-year-old the correct anatomical term some time. It's not fun.
YOU: Okay, so take this washcloth and clean your… um… clean your… (mutters) vagina.
KID: My what?
YOU: Va… Ugh. Va…giiiiiiii… Vagina.
KID: What's a vagina?
YOU: Oh, sweet fucking Jesus. Just wash your hoohaa with it.
Just wanted to relay some Jay Mariotti info to you. I work for the USGA and Mariotti was covering the U.S. Open last week. He sat beside me at two consecutive lunches and ate salad with his hands both times.
First time I'm thinking, ok, maybe he doesn't have a fork. Next day he sits next to me with a fork in plain view and eats an entire salad with dressing with his fingers. He always ate alone and didn't talk to any other writers. Weird dude.
My God. That's horrifying. Who would eat salad with their hands, besides a one-year-old? This disturbs me far more than that picture of Woody Paige making out. Does Mariotti also eat cereal in milk with his hands? What about pasta? There are plenty of foods that are acceptable to eat with your hands: meat on the bone, sandwiches, fries, chips, osso buco. But salad? That's just fucking weird. Was it a leafy salad? Or was it a meaty salad? If it was egg salad, I may have to go vomit in a bucket. THIS MAN IS AN APE.
But our anonymous source isn't done sending in delightfully unverified stories of sportswriters being weird at the Open.
Rick Reilly strolled into the media center like he was hot shit, walked over to ESPN.com guys Sobel and Harig, and went for the one-leg-up-and-lean-on-leg move.
Well, he put his leg on the little desk and the whole thing collapsed. Everyone just stared and looked and quietly laughed as Reilly tried to hold the desk together.
No one came to the rescue.
That's a HUGE douche move, the one leg up on the table move. That's the move that screams LOOK AT ME! I AM VERY CASUAL AND AM WEARING TOP SIDERS! I'VE GOT SOME CAPTAIN IN ME! No one buys into that pose. It's like putting your hands on your hips. Unless you're a general surveying a battlefield filled with enemy dead, putting your hands on your hips never looks as badass as you think it does.
Is there a proper order to showering? I personally do shampoo, conditioner, then body and face wash, but I was talking to a female friend the other day who does body and face wash, then shampoo and conditioner. Can't remember how this subject came up, but it was a complete mind fuck. For 20 years I'd assumed everyone did it the way I did. Also fun side note, whenever I have a shower beer, which is amazing, I drink every time I finish one crucial activity, it's like a weird drinking game.
Since I use dandruff shampoo (SEXY), I have a different process. I apply the shampoo, rub it into my scalp (vigorous scalp massage). And then, I leave the shampoo in to let the tussin soak in while I soap up. THEN I rinse that shit out. Some dandruff shampoos say you're supposed to leave it in for a little bit, so you get the whole Jimmy Johnson tingling effect. So I may as well soap up while I wait. And shave too. Seems like an effective use of time. I dunno what I'd do with myself otherwise. Probably stick my finger up my butt.
So for me it's lather, then wash body, then rinse out. No conditioner for me. It's 2-in-1 shampoo or bust. Because it's far too much effort for me to rub my head TWICE. Masturbation times can vary depending upon my fancy.
I was in a shower once that had a glass door. And the shower had a little wiper blade you could us to wipe the condensation off the glass. I spent a good fifteen minutes taking shampoo lather, wiping it on the door, and the wiping it off with the blade. Enormous fun. That's why you used to see so many bums out squeegeeing cars. Squeegeeing is crazy fun.
Do you ever wonder how much more amazing your life would be if you had a twin? I think about this all the time when I'm bored. You'd get into all sorts of crazy shit, pull switcharoos on girls, etc. Twins run in my family (my great grandmother was a twin, as are two of my aunts) and every time I think of this I imagine how potentially close I was to being a twin, and it frustrates the hell out of me.
I have uncles who are twins. But they're fraternal twins, and I've always had the mindset that fraternal twins are not REAL twins. Because they don't look alike (shit, they don't even have to be the same gender). Thus, you can't trade sex partners, or pretend you're a single magician performing "The Transported Man" trick to captive audiences, driving Hugh Jackman to insanity in the process. It's just not the same creepy feeling you get with identical twins who totally speak their own version of Esperanto and have probably touched each other's doodles.
Anyway, I did indeed wish I had a twin when I was a kid. Because if you have an identical twin, you got yourself a friend. And man, could I have used a friend or two. Also, I would have absolutely tried to pull off the girlfriend switch. Because when you're an identical twin, I assume that's the first thing everyone asks you. "Hey, you ever trick a girl into banging Johnny?" It's always disappointing to ask a twin that question and have them say no. You feel so cheated. I'd do it just so I could tell people yes and have them all intrigued by my sexual fraternal deviancy.
Are there identical twins out there who have married another set of identical twins? That would be fucked up, wouldn't it? In fact, I wonder how many sets of brothers out there, twins or not, have married sets of sisters. That is, if your brother and you both married girls who happened to be sisters. Would that be cool, or would that be fucked? I think it would be fucked.
I've also daydreamed of having a Siamese twin. Sometimes we're connected at the head. Sometimes the hip. Either way, I cannot even begin to imagine how fucked up that would be. I see these Siamese twin specials on TLC and shit all the time, and they never ask the masturbation question. That is ALL I want to know. I'm sure they address it in Twin Falls Idaho, but that's a dipshit Leitch movie. I'll never watch it.
TLC once showed these two girls who were Siamese twins, but they shared a lower body. So it was basically a person who forked at the waist into two people. So it's two chicks, but they share a hoohaa. So I was DYING to know how they handle masturbation. Does only one of their brains feel it? Does the right hand do it if the right head wants to diddle herself, and left if the left head wants to do likewise? Does the one girl hum Christmas songs while the other one is getting her business done? Do they have to agree on a penis? Does the right head's brain feel like it's being raped while the left head's boyfriend is going to town?
So many questions. If only TLC had the sack to ask them. If I had a Siamese twin, I'd have to drug him before I could jack it.
I had a friend in the Army who enjoyed jacking it in as many places on our small base as possible. His goal was to mark every room, from guard towers to the mess hall. I'm fairly certain he succeeded.
Is this something other people do? If so, what's your greatest accomplishment? Mine was in the stands of a professional sports arena while it was empty (I was a security guard).
Sure it was empty, Mr. Rent-A-Cop. I think every man out there would like to make sure his seed gets as much coverage as humanly possible. I know I've probably covered more of America than AT&T. Classrooms, steam rooms, pools, hot tubs, oceans, lakes, offices, kitchens, closets, football fields, cars, forests, Greyhound bus shitters. Never a sports arena, though. In fact, I still have quite an extensive list of where I'd like to help myself to myself. It's a masturbation bucket list!
-Crow's nest of an old sailing vessel
-Top of Empire State Building (look out below!)
-Everest (there has to be a mountaineer or two who jacked it at base camp and then brought his skeet to smear at the summit. That just seems like a Krakauer move)
-From a hang glider
-White House roof and Air Force One bathroom
-Confession booth at Vatican
I think Graceland is doable. Hell, there's already a show called MEMPHIS BEAT. It's like they're daring you to paint all over Elvis' tomb.
Have you ever gone to take a shit because you felt you had to, but were so enthralled with reading something or destroying your cell phone computer opponents at hearts that you forgot whether you shit or not? I do this all the time. And a lot of the time there will be toilet paper in the bowl from where I drowned an icky bug or gave myself the what for, and I can't remember if I shit or not. Then, like a fucking retard I have to wipe my ass to see. I'm a quite a catch ladies!
It happens to me sometimes. Or I'll be constipated and go for a wipe just in the hopes that I took a shit and didn't realize it. As I've grown older, I've found that ass fatigue sets in much quicker when reading on the shitter. Time was, I could blow through a whole magazine and be just fine. But nowadays, the cramping sets in after about three pages. My hips lock. Sweat begins to form between my cheeks and the seat, causing me to slip slide around. Not fun.
What is the fascination with handing out business cards to everyone you meet in a business setting, especially to dudes at the bottom of the corporate totem-pole like myself? "Sure Tim, National Manager of Big Pharmaceutical Company, I'll be sure to start CC'ng you on my usually sexist, sometimes racist email chains I get from my office buddies. Hope you like titties!!!" I guess when you order your business cards and the card company gives you, I don't know, 73,000 cards in a pack, you feel compelled to hand them out to every dick you talk to. However, they are terrific for gathering piles of weed and scooping into a J. The perfect combination of strength and maneuverability.
They're also excellent for getting bits of food out of your mouth. You get that nice sharp corner of a business card digging in between your molars… HEAVEN. If you're at some lunch or something and there's no toothpick to be had around, that business card can be a real lifesaver. Otherwise, you're just tongue-banging that bit of roast beef for the next six hours. I've gone around every corner of the business card, so each corner is all wrinkled and drenched in salivary filth. That's a solid way to treat a business card. Look at that subtle off-white coloring. The tasteful thickness of it. Oh my God, it even has a watermark!
The only reason business cards still exist, of course, is so you can drop it into the fishbowl at your local Panera and hope they draw it and give your ass a free Sierra Turkey. AND THEY NEVER DO. I don't even think they bother to draw a winner. They just take all your contact info and sell it to the Chinese, and then send you email blasts tempting you with those big chocolate and white fudge chip cookies they make. Those things are out of control, they're so good. I'd smack my kid's weewee for that cookie.
When I had, like, a real job, they gave me these huge pack of business cards. As a networking tool, they're utterly useless in a world of digital communication. What's the other person gonna do, stick it in a Rolodex? Just give them your cell phone number and be done with it. Anyway, any time the company logo scheme changed, they'd have to reissue the cards. And that happened A LOT. So they'd give you box upon box of business cards. And all I used them for was picking my teeth, and trying to train myself to throw them so that they could stick in an enemy's throat and kill him, just like Gambit could do. I never succeeded.
I'm a federal agent in a southern city.
Awesome! I love you on "Justified"! Keep bustin' heads and wearin' tall hats, motherfucker!
Recently I had to travel to another southern city to interview a witness in an investigation. We did this interview in the federal courthouse annex building (where the federal judges and U.S. attorney's have their offices). This is the first time I have been to this building, so when the need arose I asked someone who worked there where I could find the restroom.
He informed me where to find it and let me know there is only one, as in for men & women to share. This was not a bathroom that was a "single shooter" where only one person could go at a time. This was a bathroom that had two stalls and a urinal, a public bathroom like any other in any other office building, only this was for both men & women. Imagine being mid-explosion and a female walking in. Or, maybe even worse, walking in on her mid-explosion. Just makes for lots of awkwardness around the office.
Agreed. The urinal makes it doubly odd. If you're standing there taking a whiz out in the relative clear when some lady walks in, it's gonna be weird for both of you. And this is a federal courthouse. You could be taking a shit and two armed guards could wheel in a female serial killer to take a dump right next to you! I think my turd would go flying right out of my mouth if that happened.
I also dislike all unisex bathrooms because they negate one of the great advantages of being a man: Never having to wait in line for the woman's bathroom. You see those poor women at the airport lined up, waiting an eternity just to take a leak, while seven hundred guys shuttle in and out of the men's bathroom like sushi on a conveyor belt. I've seen them gazing wistfully at our bathroom. They know how good we have it when it comes to not waiting. I hate the idea of losing that envy.
You ever try and imagine what a female version of yourself would look like?
Why imagine? Reader Sean sends this in. VOILA!!!
Oh, that is NOT a good-looking woman. Anyway…
I do this all the time when I'm walking around. I'll see a chick and think, "my female equivalent would be SO much hotter than that girl". It's possibly the dumbest confidence boost I can give myself, but damn if a female version of me wouldn't look better than that girl.
I'll tell you a harrowing story right now. A story more harrowing than that photo. When I was 13 or so, there was a pool party at my house. Kids were around and swimming and eating and all that shit.
Anyway, cut to the next day. I go to the bathroom to take a leak and I see that there's a pair of girl's underpants on the floor. It's clear that some girl at the party had left them behind while changing into her suit. So I picked them up and took a look at them. This was the first pair of girl's panties I'd ever encountered. SCORE. I sniffed them. Sniffing them was a given. No way I'm finding a pair of panties and not sniffing them. Smelled like ADULTHOOD.
And then I tried putting them on. What the fuck, I figured. This was as close to girl as I was going to get. So I tossed them on as far as they would go (Not very far. Like trying to put a rubber band around a fucking battleship). Then I took them right back off because I freaked myself out for putting them on. And that, my friends, is as close to dressin' up as a lady as I ever got. Except for the time I was given medical stockings to prevent leg clotting after back surgery, but that's best never discussed.
If you HAD to, right now, for the rest of your days (that includes the afterlife, cause I don't think you're allowed to get blowies in heaven), give up head or cheese, which would it be?
I'm all but certain that, being married for seven years, I've already made this decision. THE CHEESE IS MINE!
I have always leaned toward giving up head, but have never been able to settle on an answer. Just think, that means no pizza, no grilled cheese sammitches, no nachoes, no fondue.
Listen, unless your first name is Jack and your last name is Nicholson, there will come a time in life when head will be taken away from you whether you like it or not. But you're never too old to enjoy a nacho. NO ONE DENIES THIS.
I work in downtown Boston. Every day as I walk to my office, I pass innumerable mail trucks, UPS vans and tourist trolleys. And every time I see one, I instantly play this scenario through my head: I'm being followed by some shady people, possibly government agents.
Just as the truck or trolley passes, I reach out and grab the little handhold attached to the back of the truck. It does not matter that the truck is going 5-20 MPH. In my fantasy, I'm now standing on the back bumper of the van, waving at cute girls, and definitely not getting arrested for reckless endangerment by the Boston Police. My pursuers are left stamping their feet and blaming each other for letting me get away. Of course, the driver notices me hanging out back there, and I give him a little wave a la Marty McFly in Back to the Future...
Don't forget about the part where the truck crosses a bridge and you jump from the bridge down onto a container ship, that when whisks you to Bermuda.
When I was in dipshit prep school, I had to do an English paper where I wrote about someone's job. You had to spend a day working with someone, then write about their work. I chose our school's garbagemen. This is such a fucking prep school activity I wanna punch myself. OOH! LET ME SLUM IT WITH THESE BLUE COLLAR GENTS FOR DAY TO RECORD THEIR LITTLE LIVES! HERE HERE! CONSTANCE FRY… CONSTANCE FRY… ANY TIME AT ALL…
Anyway, I did the round with them, and getting to hang on the back of a garbage truck in nice weather is a DELIGHT. It's fantastic. You can dangle there all you like, then you stop periodically to throw other people's shit into the back of the truck as violently as possible. I got to smash fluorescent light bulbs and everything. Hanging on trucks and trolley cars is awesome. Ah, memories.
I'm 23 now and I legitimately haven't combed my hair in a shade over a decade. I just towel dry it and move it around until I look less like a shithead. I'm currently looking for a real person's job (accounting FTW!), should I start taking a proactive approach to my hair and begin to actually manage it?
It's impossible to know without seeing your hair. I think most folks find a lightly mussed head of hair perfectly acceptable. But if you look like that freakshow they tossed off Top Chef DC the first week, buy a comb or brush.
By the way, my hair is too thick for a comb. I use a brush. I consider that a point of pride for my hair. NO COMB CAN TAME ME.
Time for a GREAT MOMENT IN POOP HISTORY. In the spirit of the World Cup, this one comes from Cape Town, South Africa. Reader Spalding sends in this story I call POOPVICTUS (He called it POOPOOZELA, which is also acceptable):
So I live in Cape Town, South Africa. I have been here, working, since early January. The job is pretty cool as far as jobs go, and the people I work with are a diverse cast of characters, befitting the new South Africa. There is this one guy, though, that is a classic office Goebbels. I have no idea what this guys function is—nominally he is the IT guy, which is ironic since the office literally is connected to the internet via a dial-up connection. Anyway the guy must be the laminating king of the fucking planet. This dude writes these insanely annoying, bitchy things, prints the fuckers out, laminates and sticks them all over the goddamn office.
TEA CLUB ONLY! PLEASE DO NOT USE TEA BAGS IF YOU DON''T BELONG TO THE TEA CLUB!
ASSURE THE TOASTER IS UNPLUGGED AND ALL WINDOWS AND DOORS ARE LOCKED WHEN YOU LEAVE!
I MOLEST COLLIES!
Since I have been living here I have been puzzled by the toilet situation. I don't know how to explain it exactly, but its like the shit hole is in the wrong place. Like the place where the shit goes and gets flushed, is like more in the middle of the toilet. And therefore the back wall of the toilet is sort of too far forward. It's not like I recline when I take a shit, but I mean I typically sit on the toilet like a normal person, not all perched on the edge of the bowl like some junior congressman during the state of the union address.
So for a couple months I have been just destroying toilets, leaving poohcassos and shit smears all over the back walls of toilets across this fair city. So I was between places and was staying temporarily at this hostel. Which was cool because travelers typically are all about partying on random Tuesday nights. So I'm hanging with this group of euros and we end up getting mega trashed on Long Street, which is like Cape Town's amateur hour tourist drag, filled with street vendors peddling extremely questionable fried meat products. So I'm wasted hammering some sausage grease bomb. Ended up back at the hostel somehow because I am totally blacked out. I wake up the next morning waaaaay late for work and still shit-canned but take a shower and put on ten times more deodorant than usual to try to cover the booze stink. I get to my office and I am wrecked, terrible, drunkover head-in-my-hands mess.
So I am in a sweaty dead sprint for the crapper, slamming open the stall with my hip while frantically clawing at my belt. I get it off in time and I am just BLASTING the fucking toilet. I mean volume AND volume, you know? BRRRRAAAAAAPPPPP, BRAAAPPPPPPPP! I am clutching at the walls of the stall and making the Dave Chappelle face. Just plain wrong. Of course there was no time to remember to adjust the angle of attack to South Africa mode, so I mean this toilet was just fucking disgusting. Not the first time I had perpetrated an atrocity on this particular toilet, either. But BY FAR the worst.
So I limp out of there and lock myself in my office for the rest of the day.
The next day (still fucking hungover from two nights before) I roll back to the scene of the crime. And there, laminated, was this:
This fucking guy, the SAME DAY, had gone and crafted that public service announcement, LAMINATED IT, dug up or bought a toilet brush, and posted that shit right over the toilet. I mean, fine, ok, obviously no one wants to contend with a shit sprayed toilet. And by all rights it was a dick move to poopoozela and run. But that patronizing bullshit is just batshit insane. What is he, the Sheriff of Crappingham? Like: not on my watch, buddy! Use the brush if necessary, ass-sprayer! I am aware it is a shared toilet, fuckwad. He is all acting like I carved my name in the door with a knife.
Not my fault your whole country's toilet geometry is all fucked. FIX YOUR GEOMETRY AFRICA!
Indeed. Maybe Africans have higher assholes.