Time for your weekly edition of the Deadspin Funbag. Got something on your mind? Email the Funbag. Today, we're covering sex tapes, traffic lights, bats and more.
Happy New Year, everyone. The Funbag is a little bit short today on account of the holiday. But fear not, I'm sure the ... (runs to check TV listings) ... Outback Bowl will keep you occupied. Your letters:
Say you had to kill someone using a fruit. What fruit would it be, and what method would you use? I was thinking a pineapple bashing would be good, or strangling someone with a banana. What do you think?
Well of course, I must first remind you that you should never attempt to kill someone with fresh fruit, lest they have basic training:
"When you're walking home at night and some homicidal maniac comes after you with a bunch of loganberries, don't come crying to me!"
Anyway, there are any number of poisonous fruits out there, if you're looking to kill someone in the most passive-aggressive manner possible: nightshade, jimsonweed ("horrific symptoms, including dilated pupils, racing heartbeat, hallucination, delirium, aggressive behavior and possibly coma or seizures"), and more. But that's not the kind of fruit-related murder we're talking about. You're looking for a more aggressive kill, a face-to-face, "I am now ending your life" kind of weapon. You're looking for...THE DURIAN FRUIT.
The hard spiky shell allows for expert bludgeoning, and should the fruit crack open, the rotting stench inside will stun your opponent and allow you extra time to pulverize his face. I would also recommend coconuts. Very hard, much more so than a pineapple, which could split open upon impact. Raspberries would be a last resort.
By the way, ever prick your finger on a pineapple or an artichoke? It really hurts. I don't like any fruit or vegetable that's so hostile to your fingertips. It's just an artichoke. It doesn't even taste good. Artichokes are bullshit.
Would you sit in your car for two weeks straight if it meant you'd never have to wait at a traffic light again?
1) We're only eliminating the waits at traffic signals. All other forms of traffic backups are still in play (wrecks, presidential motorcades, Tracy Morgan running down the street naked, etc.).
2) You are not allowed to leave the driver's seat of your car for any reason whatsoever. You will have medical staff monitoring your health during the process and making sure you keep the blood flowing (don't want any Deep Vein Thromboses). You will be given a temporary catheter and a temporary colostomy bag for your evacuation needs. Barring any serious health issues during the two-week span, you do not leave the car.
3) Your car will be parked and stationary for the entire two weeks, so you can spend the time however you choose. Read books, listen to music, learn a new language. Whatever. The world is your oyster.
Do you do it?
It's not worth it to me if the two weeks don't also eliminate traffic from my life forever. The average stoplight wait is under a minute. That's not terrible, plus it gives me a second to yell at my children or check Twitter alerts for my name because I'm a disgusting person. Now, I say that knowing that some rogue traffic lights will keep you waiting for hours on end. There's an intersection in my vicinity that's so busy, you have to wait for the three opposing points of traffic to get their own light before you finally have your turn. It's the worst.
But it's still not as bad as traffic. You underestimate just how much worse traffic is than any other road obstruction. I go into any road trip FEARING it. That's how awful traffic is. It has a grip on your psyche, the way death and sexual rejection do. I can hear my life being wasted when I sit in traffic. I can picture everyone else at my end destination already there, happy and free from their vehicles. I want to burst out of my skin and become a rampaging monster when traffic happens. I'd happily stay in a car for two weeks to banish it from my life forever. But just stoplights? Not worth it. Although it would be fun to live in your car for two weeks and see if you could do it. Friends could bring you pizza and weed. You could listen to the radio all day. By the second week, you'd smell like a hobo. Oh, how I've dreamed of being a homeless person living in a car—to hit rock bottom and wind up squatting in the back of an old van ... so romantic. It would be a real experience.
Full disclosure, I'm a Texans fan and work in Radiation Oncology. Is it just me or is the ChuckStrong shit out of control? I mean, the team had like two months together before he was diagnosed. How strong could the connection have been? Also, it's the most curable form of cancer.
I know I'm an ass going to hell but come on already. Also, fuck Jim Irsay that guy sucks.
You better watch your back, Texans fan. The people at BIG WRISTBAND do not take kindly to such cynicism. Anyway, I know Chuck Pagano wasn't the Colts head coach for very long before he received his diagnosis. I'm sure there were players on the roster who barely knew him. But you're discounting the affection that Pagano engendered AFTER his illness, and the graceful way that both he and Bruce Arians handled the situation. Remember: Coaches are fucking weirdoes. If it had been Bill Belichick getting a leukemia diagnosis, he would have issued a gag order to his oncologist, wiretapped Josh McDaniels's phone to make sure he wasn't getting TOO comfortable in his interim position, and he would have kept on banging your aunt.
Say Calvin Johnson pulls a 10-inch crank out as part of a TD celebration. What are the ensuing penalties and suspension?
He gets 15 yards and the gate for unsportsmanlike conduct. Then I think he gets a two-game suspension for the dong exposure, plus any ensuing legal penalties, including possible legal action from the networks, hoping to cover their asses so that the FCC doesn't fine them. And then you'd have a cottage media industry spring up around Megatron's penis. Colin Cowherd would demand to know who the penis's daddy was. Gregg Easterbrook would remark that a tight end would never do such a thing. And First Take would continue doing all the things First Take does. And then Whitlock would write an entire column about how white people are afraid of black penises. "You know we're packing. Serena Williams ain't settling for no lollipop stick." It would be horrible. So let's all rest easy that Detroit is out of the playoffs and Megatron can't flash anyone. THAT WOULD BE A DISGUSTING ACT.
My five year old caught me eating the strawberry jam chunk off the sandwich I was making her. She was quite upset. The proportional response is to hide the strawberry and feed her only orange marmalade for the rest of her life, right?
Damn right. You paid for that jam. Daddy gets the big strawberry hunk. Your daughter doesn't even understand that you were doing her a favor. The strawberry chuck is impossible to spread. Best to eat it and leave the rest for an even application.
When I was in college, they had a PB&J bar, and the tubs of jam and peanut butter had these big spreader knives that you could use to put 50 pounds of each ingredient onto the bread. I miss those spreaders. They were like forklifts for chunky-style.
If you could have an NFL team made only from clones of one player, who would that player be?
My first thought was someone like RG3, but that won't work because it would have be a player who is large enough to adequately handle line play but swift enough to play skill positions and cover receivers. And they have to occasionally throw the ball and kick. That means you're gonna have to choose a tweener kind of player, like a tight end (a whole team of tight ends? THE FOOTBALL GODS ARE SMILING ON THESE CLONES) or a linebacker, like Patrick Willis or Von Miller. Either way, that team will lose every game by 75 points, even if you chose to clone someone as brilliant as Von Miller. The beauty of football is that one team is forced to employ such a diversely skilled set of players: QBs who can throw, RBs who can run, DTs who can eat entire stacks of pancakes, etc. To have all those miniature skill displays happening simultaneously on every down is what makes it fun.
My friends and I were arguing who, out of the NFL's starting QBs, is the biggest masturbator. Consensus choice: Big Ben.
No wonder his penis is gray. Maybe he fapped until it turned sour. But no, my choice is Ryan Fitzpatrick. Harvard boys be fappin'. Just think about it: a cold-weather campus, with average-looking students, many of whom are so bogged down in their studies that they don't have time to orally pleasure members of the football team ... it's a recipe for mass fappitude.
Do you think that guys should have to pay half for their girlfriends' birth control? My girlfriend says yes; I obviously say no. Your thoughts?
Women usually don't go dutch on rubbers (which ain't cheap, by the way), so I say you shouldn't have to. There should be enough sharing of meals and gifts in your relationship that her birth control tab isn't a hair worth splitting. Besides, while forcing you to pay half of it is perfectly logical, it's one of those gestures that says to a man, "Oh hey, I'm having sex with you as a favor, so be happy with what you get," which is shitty.
Either way, there needs to be a male birth control pill. It's 2013. We have pills for depression, erectile dysfunction, addiction, incontinence, and a million other ailments. The male pill is long overdue. Think of the money pro athletes would save. Apart from the ones too stupid to use the pill, which would be 80 percent of them.
What would you do if your poop was clear? And when you wiped you had no idea if you were clean or not but it still had the same smell if you missed something?
Clear poop would be monstrous. You would feel like you just birthed an alien blob. I know poop is no picnic in its current state, but the idea that fecal matter wouldn't be readily visible to the naked eye is just too horrifying to contemplate.
I took my kid to the playground the other day and I had to use the port-a-potty. The biffs at this playground are notorious for being unkempt, but I had no choice. When I walked in, there was shit smeared all over the back of the toilet. Like someone threw a hefty bag full of shit at the wall and then fled. It was horrible and I almost threw up. But if that poop had been clear, I would have been none the wiser until I was INCHES away from it, if that. I could have sat on it! NO! NONONONONONO. The brown color helps alert you to poop's presence, which is critical.
This year's Super Bowl-winning NFL team versus your high school football team - but your alma matter gets to put 22 guys on the field for every play and can ignore all formation rules. Who wins?
I still say the NFL team wins. Having that many players on the field simultaneously isn't necessarily a big help. You'd have a bunch of rickety middle-aged guys tripping all over each other at every turn, and none of them would be able to outjump Demaryius Thomas anyway. Half of them would be wiped out with injury by the half, if not sooner. The NFL GLORY BOYS would beat your gritty squad of undrafted free agents handily.
How much would you need to be paid to never "eat" again? You can have three flavourless shakes to fill in for meals that meet all your nutritional needs. But no eating of actual food. Would you do it for $100,000 a year?
Can you still drink alcohol? Because that matters. I don't think it's worth that price either way, because your ability to experience BOLD FLAVORS is surely more valuable than any set amount of money. I know Roger Ebert has come to grips with the fact that he'll never be able to eat again: "The food and drink I can do without easily. The jokes, gossip, laughs, arguments and shared memories I miss." But I dunno. The food is pretty damn important. If it's between talking to you and eating my burger, I'm choosing the burger. Burgers taste amazing.
At my place of employment, they mandate that we wear our employee ID badges on our hip so that we can always be identified. Beside the fact that we have to swipe our badge to get from room to room, it isn't that big of a deal. However, every time I go to drop a deuce in the bathroom I always make sure that once I drop my drawers, I turn my badge (which, as aforementioned, is affixed to my pants) around so that the guy dooking next to me doesn't know who I am. Am I insecure?
No, I think that's a smart move. Always better to be the mystery dumper. It gives you more freedom inside the stall to make noises and look at naked people on your phone.
Why can't you wear your badge on a lanyard around your neck? Putting it on your hip makes it like a cell phone clip, which is so weak. If I have to rock an ID badge, I'm putting around my neck and pretending I have a Level XXXVIII Security Clearance. Oh, you think I'm taking a shit? Turns out Stall G actually contains a secret tunnel leading to NORAD headquarters. It was the best way for us to track down bin Laden. FIND ME PEOPLE TO KILL.
Blowing your nose into toliet paper while taking a shit then using that toliet paper to wipe your ass is perfectly acceptable, right?
Do you fold it, so that the snot part doesn't touch the poop part? You have to fold it. You're an animal if you don't do that.
Have we reached a point where celeb sex tapes are no longer a big deal? I saw that Emma Stone might have a sex tape and my first reaction was, "eh who cares"... I mean obviously I'll find it for free online and fap to it but I'll forget about it 5 min later.
That's probably true. There's such a massive quantity of naked bodies online, and it's increasing by the thousands every day. One more sex tape added to the pile can barely make a dent. There will come a point at which everyone is filmed at all times and everyone has a sex tape out there whether he or she likes it or not. That's just the way civilization is progressing. Everyone is watching and monitoring each other now, almost as if we live in a dictatorship of each other. I like things this way. It allows me to judge people without knowing them, and that's healthy!
Out of the top ten most important coaches in sports, how many are football coaches? I would guess eight, with Popovich and Calipari being the exceptions. My other picks would be Nick Saban, Bill Belichick, both Harbaughs, Mike Tomlin, Chip Kelly, Urban Meyer, and Peyton Manning(OC). FYI I know nothing about soccer, rugby, cricket, slamball, horseshoes, etc.
I swear I'm not trying to be Mr. Equality here, but doesn't Geno Auriemma have to be in the mix? I really don't give a shit about women's basketball, but that guy pretty much stands alone in the sport. I would make this the list:
• Jim Harbaugh (but not John)
• Coach K (barf)
• Sean Payton
• (Space reserved for important soccer coach. Jose Mourinho?)
There are no baseball managers on this list, but that's OK because managers are useless. I do like that Jim Leyland though. He smokes! That's something. Replace Auriemma with Chip Kelly if you are SEXISSSSS.
Email of the week time! It's another GREAT MOMENT IN BAT-KILLING HISTORY.
I was the third of five children in my family, but the oldest male so I always got tasked to do the manual work around the house. I was about 15 years old when my siblings and I were spending a summer night at the house - my parents were out of town at a banquet - when we sensed something was wrong. Growing up in Wisconsin, it's common to have a bat sneak into your farm house once or twice a summer, so you quickly learn the tell-tale "squeak" sound it makes while hovering in its terrorizing flight pattern in your living room. This night was no exception; as soon as we identified a bat, all the kids scurried to an upstairs room. We sealed the bottom of the door with a blanket and called it a night, foolishly hoping maybe it'd find its own way out.
First thing in the morning, I was given the inevitable task of search and destroy. Since we holed up in my room, I had my sports gear at the ready, including an aluminum baseball bat and a tennis racket. Being summer and being on a team, I chose the bat thinking I had some relevant practice. I peeked my head outside the door and quickly identified the flying rodent across the hallway underneath a ledge below the ceiling. After a minute, I gained enough courage to slip outside, position myself, and take a mighty swing upwards.
However, my bat hit the ledge, which managed to protect the bat. The beast didn't even flinch, staying in its upside-down slumber.
I decided to change tools and go for the tennis racket. It was lighter and maybe I'd have a little more accuracy in keeping the racket below the ledge and hitting only the bat. I choked up again and swung. I made solid contact with the bat and it fell straight to the floor without a sound or move. It laid there at my feet.
What happened next haunts me to this day. I had no idea what to do next; after all, this was my virgin bat kill. I thought to myself, "Maybe I just stunned it. Better check this out." To see if it was still alive, I used the surface of the tennis racket to press down on the bat a bit and see if it would move. If it was still alive, I would have it trapped and could figure out something to do then.
When I pressed down with the racket, the bat made a sound that still gives straight-up chills. I can only describe it as a squeal of hell: high-pitched, loud, angry and really, really pissed. It was something out of this world and terrifying, like something a demented special effects guy would come up for the sound the mother Alien makes at Ripley, a territorial hiss. My teenage self then proceeded to freak the fuck out and scream back at it, then unleashed hell with my tennis racket, raining full-force blows over and over again on this evil creature. I think this went on for about twenty, maybe thirty seconds before I realized I had pulverized this animal. I do not consider myself a violent person at all, but this shrill changed me, even if for that instant.
Somehow I haven't had to kill a bat since then. Good thing because I still hear that awful, awful sound in my memory to this day and I'd probably just respond by curling up in the corner.