Do you prefer to eat PEZ out of the dispenser with your mouth/teeth, or take it out of the dispenser with your fingers then pop it into your mouth?


As a large fat child, I used to just open the little roll of Pez and stuff it all into my mouth, without bothering to put it in the dispenser at all. The dispenser was a needless middle step for Young Drew, one that limited my access to chalky grape candy and enforced unwanted portion control. Also, my fat fingers were not deft enough to slide the Pez into the little Tweety dispenser gracefully. I would break the Pez in half. Or the candies would end up laying vertically in the little plastic trench, which is always sheer death. No coming back from that. Instead, I ate the Pez directly and snapped the dispenser open and shut for fun.

I don’t eat Pez anymore because I have dedicated all of my sweet tooth’s energy toward sampling every variety of Chocolove bar (they make a salted almond butter one now that is just… [knees begin to quiver]). But if I did still eat Pez, I would pluck that shit out of the dispenser with my fingers. I’m sure it’s fun to play Dracula and go sucking the candy right out of Papa Smurf’s throat, but I’d rather just grab it. Also, I’ve come very close to sliding in the whole stack of Pez without fucking it up, but I’m not quite there yet. If you unwrap the stack halfway and then shove it in, you can get pretty good results before your kid takes the dispenser and dumps the candy back out all over the floor.



I was watching the movie Children Of Men. If this scenario actually happened I don’t think people would be murdering each other and blowing shit up because no more kids. It would be nirvana, especially for the last generation. They will never be called old, be on the cutting edge of everything and their taxes would go way down because no schools and countless other positives I can’t even think of. Am I wrong on this?


I hate to break it to you Robert, but you are. You see, the world you live in depends on lots of people doing lots of shit. You need them to make food and build houses and staff airports and serve as roadies for Britny Fox and drive beer trucks from the brewery to your local convenience store. When you have LESS people around to do all those things, they don’t get done. And that’s very bad, especially if you’re a big coddled manbaby, like I am. Imagine if Seamless couldn’t find anyone to deliver me a pizza. CHAOS.

So yes, if the world suddenly stopped producing more children, you would not be on easy street. You would be living in a disaster zone. You would still feel very old, particularly because you would be constantly reminded that humanity dies with you. You would still be deeply uncool, because you would be wearing tattered rags and you would smell like poop and kerosene at all times. Your taxes might go down, but that’s only because entire governments and economies would collapse and you would be left foraging for burrito scraps and sleeping inside abandoned nightclubs. It would not be nirvana. It would be sheer hell.


If you’d like a real-life preview of what kind of horrorshow a child-free world would look like, may I offer you, uh, America 2018? Our birth rates are below replacement level and have been for some time now. We’re not producing enough fuck trophies to make enough future teachers, doctors, scientists, and quarterbacks. Normally we would fill that void with people coming in from other countries, but because the country is now run by old men who have just discovered Reddit for the first time, those people are being painted as the cause of the problem instead of the very obvious solution to it. Eventually, everyone’s gonna get driven out of America until there are only like, a dozen rich guys left. They will die alone on estates that take up multiple states, and I will not be sad for them.

All of this is to say that you should thank me for having three kids. Don’t blame me when the supply chain dries up and we’re all forced to eat cat meat. I did my part to restock the pond.



My roommate and I hang shirts on the hanger in opposite directions. I hang mine so that when you look at the front of the shirt on the hanger the hook forms a question mark shape, the correct way in other words. He hangs his so that it looks like a backwards question mark, the wrong way. The thing is I barely own any shirts that really need to be hung up and he on the other hand has a seemingly endless wardrobe of nice shirts so he should know better and be hanging them up correctly. We have another friend who we asked to solve the debate and it turns out he just throws shirts on the hanger in both directions so he is certifiably insane and unqualified to solve this.


I had to check my closet for this, since I never gave it much thought before you asked. Everything was facing left, with the hook forming a question mark. Same with all my wife’s crap. We use a lot of fixed hangers, not the fancy Saks Fifth Avenue ones where you can spin the hook in any direction you please. I only have a couple of fancy wooden hangers that swivel like that, and I cherish them because they are definitely the classiest items I own. But if I want the hook to be a question mark on everything else (and clearly, on a deep subconscious level, I do), and I want my closet to look uniform (again, I clearly do), I have to hang everything facing left.

I think that’s standard. Pretty much every department store that uses fixed hangers hangs their goods to the left. If I ever went to, like, Brooks Brothers and found the hanger hook facing the other direction, I bet would it would fuck me up on such a profound level that I would feel nauseous without quite knowing why. The question mark is the correct orientation for the hook, for it conjures the requisite air of mystery inherent in any garment you purchase or own. Will this fit? Does it look good on me? Will anyone notice the cum stain? Will it be too tight and remind me of every last bad habit of mine? Will I get laid in this? Those are the tough questions I ask of my hanging wardrobe. Without the question mark hanger, those queries go unasked.


I wonder if your one friend hangs it the other way because he’s lefty, or because he a contrarian asshole. Your other friend is just lazy.


I have to monitor my youngest dog when she goes out to the backyard to do her business because we have two other dogs and she will occasionally eat their poop. Is it weird if I just decide to piss in the backyard one night while I’m out there? They’re already doing it.


Well, can anyone see you? I peed in my yard once but I live along a row of houses so I had to shield myself from view and piss in a shaded corner. That’s right: I was too lazy to go piss in my house, so I pissed ON it. I don’t think I’d do it again. It wasn’t the most carefree piss I’ve ever taken. I live in great fear of becoming one of those dudes who gets jailed for sex crimes all because he took out his dick to piss in the wrong area. Also, peeing on the grass turns it brown.

But hey, if you in Wyoming or some other barren place, by all means. Take your liberties. Despite my anxieties, I still relish pissing outside and wish I could do it more often. There’s a reason college bros piss off of balconies. That is a true piss rager right there.



Over the past several months I’ve been avoiding an old high school friend of mine whenever he makes overtures for us to catch up. The guy is nice enough and I’d like to see him, but the problem is that whenever we’ve gotten together recently the subject would inevitably be dominated by politics and Trump talk: specifically, how bad things are getting and how horrible of a person Trump is. Now don’t get me wrong, I hate Trump as much as the next guy, but I don’t want the guy dominating even more aspects of my life than he already does and would much rather have a standard “life check-in” type of catchup with my friend. Should I feel bad about cutting off a guy who I actually agree with, politically, just because he has no off switch about this?


I’d talk to him about it. I don’t think he’d be offended if you told him, earnestly, “Listen man, I really can’t talk about politics right now. It’s wearing me out.” I think pretty much anyone can relate to that concept in 2018. I kind of identify with your friend because it’s nearly impossible NOT to at least think about this, let alone talk about it. It dominates everything. Bro, Donald Trump is living RENT FREE in his head, bro! I think people bring it up against their better judgment because they’re in desperate need of a sympathetic ear.

But I also identify with your need to have a break from all that shit, because it’s all so goddamn relentless. Every day is just, “Hey, you think things were shitty yesterday? Well here’s an even shittier thing that JUST happened!” It’s enervating. And it’s taken a genuine psychological toll on a lot of people who just want to be free of this bullshit and live their lives, only they can’t look away because it can feel irresponsible to ignore all the evildoing at hand. This stupid administration is omnipresent now.


So I would talk to the guy. I’ve had to do it with people before. Usually I just say, “Please, I can’t…” and that pretty much does the trick. Then I throw down an entire bottle of Overholt and start speaking with cockney accent. That’s when people know I’m not in the mood for Supreme Court takes.

Email of the week!


The year was 2000. I had just turned 10 and it was the end of a little league season that had gone well enough for my team to earn a berth in the playoffs. I wasn’t the best player on the team, but I wasn’t the worst (batted 6th, played left). For some reason, this game had been scheduled at a field that was entirely bereft of port-a-potties, or really anywhere to properly relieve yourself in privacy. No big deal, though, I’d never had to drop a log during a game before, and as far as I knew, I had nothing in the reserves that couldn’t wait until I got home later.

Fast forward to the top of the fifth inning. I trot out to my position and am focused on playing the best defense I can, as we were down two runs and the game only lasts six innings. Suddenly, I feel a stabbing pain in my midsection. I immediately recognize that I am in need of a toilet, but I keep cool and battle it until the third out and then make my way to the dugout at a faster pace than usual.

Now this is the part that’s really fucked up and has bothered me the most these past 17 years. My dad was the manager and I asked him if I could run behind some bushes and do my thing, and he was NOT having it. “What if you don’t make it back in time?! You think I’m gonna put one of these slugs on the bench in for the last inning?!” I continue to plead my case, to no avail, until it was time to go back in the field.

I get out there and begin pacing back and forth, squeezing my anal sphincter like my life depends on it. I tell myself that no matter what, I’m gonna go poop in those bushes once it was our turn to bat. Three batters later, my worst fear comes to fruition. I completely lose control of my asshole and Deepwater Horizon: Diarrhea Edition is in full effect. There was so much shit running down my pant legs that it made it out of the bottoms of my stirrups and formed an uneven brownish-orange layer on top of my cleats. After the third out, I walk to the bench and ask my dad if he’s happy. He grunts something and tells me I’m on deck.

I waddle to the batter’s box to avoid having any more of my molten turds drop out of my pants, and promptly strike out on three pitches. Our pitcher’s mom comes over to me and hugs me from a distance and tells my teammates how brave she thinks I am. Being a group of 10-year-old boys, they laugh hysterically and promptly nickname me “Hershey Squirts.”

I hope my dad got poop all over on his hands while he had to clean the shit out of the back seat of his car when we got home.


Send that dad to prison! BAD DADDING!