Let’s say I win the lottery and offered to give you $100 million, but with one catch: you have to get breast implants. We’ll say C cups, so nothing too outrageous, but you have to keep them for the rest of your life. I’ll have a lawyer draw up an airtight contract. Would you say yes?


Oh, sure. I’m almost 40. Boobs are coming my way whether I want them or not, so I might as well get some cash out of it. And some nice cans! Why, I’d feel myself up all day, I would! “Does anyone hear me complaining about the breasts?”

I was really heavy as a kid, so I had little-kid boobs. And when you have kid boobs, they’re not just lobes of fat. Like, I remember feeling tissue there, which was alarming to say the least. Then I read about Shaft getting breast cancer and didn’t feel quite so alone. The time has come to END man-boob shaming, I say! If you’ve got it, flaunt it. That means YOU, Phil Mickelson.



I come from a very small family; I’m an only child, my dad was an only, and both his parents were, too. They’re all gone now, so this means I’ve inherited a LOT of random stuff of wildly varying value with no siblings or aunts or uncles to distribute it around. One of the things I inherited were human remains. My grandmother was good friends with a childless couple back in the ’50s or ’60s; when they both died, somehow she ended up with their ashes, and never did anything with them but stick the boxes in the back of a closet for me to find 30 years later.

I know their names, but that’s about it. So, what’s the etiquette on disposing of a complete stranger’s mortal remains? Do I spend my own money to have them interred somewhere? Do I sneak into a park and dump them under an oak tree? Do I put them in urns and make up a backstory and display them at parties? Or do I stick them in a closet for my grandchildren to discover one day, and just keep the tradition going?


I wouldn’t spend money to bury the ashes or have them interred in a private mausoleum. That’s unfair and a complete pain in the ass. I would dispose of them tastefully, either in some beautiful public park space, or even out on the ocean somehow. That’s what I would want a stranger to do if he stumbled upon my charred ashes 50 years after I got hit by a train. (keep your fingers crossed, America!) If you found my ashes and were nice enough to find a quiet and peaceful place to divest yourself of them, I would make it my ghostly mission to make sure you found a $20 bill on the ground that same day. That’s a promise I will keep into the afterlife.

If you wanna take it a step further, I suggest a JAZZ PARTY FUNERAL. Send out an evite to all your HIPSTER friends announcing the memorial party of Harriet and Milbert, and then they’ll be like, “Who?” and then you explain the story, and then hilarity ensues. Pass out steamed crawfish and icebox dinner rolls and GUMBO GUMBO GUMBO, and then give a eulogy for the deceased couple and consign them to the ground. Then get drunk and naked. I bet the New York Times Styles section would write up the festivities. “With A Stranger’s Ashes, A New Kind Of Millennial Party.”



Would you rather set the MLB consecutive-game hitting streak with one single per game (ugly ones, too, like high choppers off home plate or dribblers up the third-base line) for the entire 162 game season, or win the Triple Crown?


The streak! Are you shitting me? Migual Cabrera won the Triple Crown four years ago. Do I care? Fuck no, I don’t care. But a 162-game hit streak? People would lose their minds. Not only would it nearly triple the existing record, but you would get to erase Joe DiMaggio—one of the most miserable bastards in the history of sports—from the record books in one fell swoop! You’d never have to pay for a meal again.

Since all the power records were obliterated during the steroid era, that streak is the most prominent sports record still standing. I’m not a huge baseball fan, but any time someone gets close to matching that streak, I start paying attention. If I were the commissioner of baseball, I’d rig it so that someone finally broke that streak and my sport could reap the financial benefits.


So imagine not only breaking the record, but carrying that streak wire-to-wire through a full season. You’d be a fucking GOD. You could win the presidency. Autograph hounds would harass you 24-7! You’d never be able to eat a meal in peace ever again! Everyone would accuse of you cheating … huh. Now that I think about it, maybe I’ll take the Triple Crown.


Do you think we’ve seen the most possible coverage for a single sports story ever? Penn State, “Deflategate,” etc. have all been covered relentlessly. What would have to happen for something to somehow be covered more by ESPN?


No, something else will come along. Whether it’s a LeBron James murder-suicide or Johnny Manziel going on a five-state armed-robbery spree, something completely insane will happen, and ESPN will cover it with such depth and ferocity that you will end up sick to death of the story within hours. You will become utterly desensitized to the gravity of the original event and just cry out BORING any time they show that footage of Tim Tebow swearing allegiance to Kim Jong Un. Ugh, again? This story is old!

I think that’s why people cry out SLOW NEWS DAY any time anyone posts virtually any story online. No story is big enough or new enough to satisfy my primal need for dramatic shit to happen. Why hasn’t anything happened yet? I AM BORED. Someone make something crazy happen! I’m sitting here, scrolling through Netflix channels and skipping songs on Spotify after 60 seconds of play. I crave eventfulness. This is why Trump is gonna get elected president. You news people better turn up a dead body somewhere for my pleasure. Otherwise … SLOW NEWS DAY, FELLAS?! Come talk to me when a nuke hits Fenway Park.



A few weeks ago, my German neighbors let me know they were going back for two months and asked if I could get their mail. I agreed, since they do the same for us. So the night before they leave, the husband knocks on my door holding a crusty mason jar of some weird white goop. Turns out it’s a sourdough starter, and he’s asking if I can watch it while they’re gone. Again, I agree, but then Ludwig starts giving me instructions about how I have to feed it specific amounts of flour/water every week, let it rest, use a clean spoon, and some other crap I already forgot. He might as well be asking me to watch his toddler at this point. The cherry on top of this yeasty sundae: They didn’t give me enough flour, and I now have to go shell out for fancy baker’s flour to keep this thing alive. This has to rank near the top of annoying favors, right? Should I just dump it and buy a new starter the day before they get back?


That’s ridiculous. I don’t know what kind of bizarre yeast rituals they have over in Dusseldorf, but here in ’MURKA, you get your neighbor’s mail and feed their fish and maybe shovel their walk while they’re gone, and that’s the end of it. You do not babysit a fucking wad of dough. There’s a reason I don’t make bread, and that is because making bread is a complete pain in the ass. You can’t spring that on someone at the last minute. These damn Europeans. So lasseiz-faire with everything. LET ME JUST DROP MY CHILD AT THIS BUS STATION AND SOMEONE WILL TAKE CARE OF THEM WHILE I HAVE MY ABSINTHE.

If I were you, I would grudgingly take care of the dough for Horst, fuming the whole time. But in return, I would silently, WASP-ily expect a bottle of wine and a fresh-baked loaf of that sourdough as my reward for all that needless toil. If he doesn’t cough up some free bread, he can goose-step it straight back to Bavaria!


By the way, my mother-in-law (who is German!) used to make homemade bread, and one day she baked a fresh loaf, which we were all enjoying when suddenly she said, “Has anyone seen the starter?!” Then she looked down at the piping-hot bread on the table and said, “Uh oh ….” I bet that happens to breadmakers a LOT.

Email of the week!


This summer, I went to Paris for my honeymoon. The first day of sightseeing was roughly 100 degrees, and I was exhausted/starving by lunch time. My wife and I stopped into a nice cafe in the St. Germain district of the city. On the menu I noticed a French specialty section and ordered “Andouillette,” because the description said “Sausage.” I love most meats and sausages, so this seemed like a slam dunk. But the waiter tried to talk me out of ordering it—he kept saying I wouldn’t like it, and that no one really orders it, etc. etc. etc. Finally I was frustrated and basically thought, “I am an American and damn well will eat anything you French people put in front of me.”

I finalized the order with him, and he said, “Look man, I have warned you repeatedly not to order this, and we won’t take it off of your bill.”

To that I replied, “No problem, I am in France, and am looking for the local cuisine. I won’t back down.”

The food came out, and it smelled like actual poop. I ate a bite and almost threw up, and when the waiter asked how it was, I replied, “Delicious, it’s too bad there’s only one.” He walked away, I choked down another bite, and then hid the rest under the salad my wife ordered. After the meal, I looked the food up at my hotel. Turns out it’s basically a poop/pee sausage made from pig colon, and as the link below shows, it not only tastes awful, it looks disgusting, and no one in history seems to have had a good experience eating this.

Am I wrong to have gone out on a limb and tried something “local” even though this dude discouraged me seven or eight times? Also, would you have ordered this, not knowing what it is, and only going off of the description of “sausage” on the menu?


It’s the name “Andouillette” that throws me, because andouille sausage is delicious and safe. I would have assumed andouillette was simply a cocktail-wiener-sized version of the same thing. They should call it merde sausage, so that you know what you’re getting.

Anyway, I applaud you in your determination to try the native food. But if the waiter is politely telling you that even natives don’t eat it, I’d listen to him. It would be one thing if he were a snotty prick and was like, “You cannot handle it you SHIT AMERICAN,” but if he seems genuinely concerned for your welfare, you better heed Pierre’s warning.


Drew Magary writes for Deadspin. He’s also a correspondent for GQ. Follow him on Twitter@drewmagary and email him at drew@deadspin.com. You can also pre-order Drew’s second novel, The Hike, through here.

Lead art by Jim Cooke.

Adequate Man is Deadspin’s self-improvement blog, dedicated to making you just good enough at everything. Suggestions for future topics are welcome below.