Time for your weekly edition of the Deadspin Funbag. Got something on your mind? Email the Funbag. Today, we’re covering drafting, baller hotels, wedding bands, and more.
I've been traveling a lot lately, and since I'm Mister Big Fancypants Author Person, I've been put up in nice hotels—the kind of boutique hotels where, if my parents were staying there, they wouldn't be able to figure out how to turn the lights on and shit. And the remarkable thing about these hotels is that, when you walk in the door, you IMMEDIATELY want to have sex with someone. There are floor-to-ceiling mirrors and bearskin bedspreads and minimalist white decor and desks that come just up to genital height. You walk in and you're like Holy shit, I need to fuck someone right away or this whole room will have gone to waste!
I can't even imagine what the hooker call-in percentage is for some of these rooms. If you're a single man or a married scumbag staying in one of these rooms, ordering a hooker seems almost mandatory. I got in the bed and all I could think was, 85 hookers have been in this bed in the past week alone. And man, was that HOT. I fapped a dozen times before falling asleep. I hope I did those rooms proud.
Anyway, before we begin, a quick note: I'm going on vacation this week. There will be no baller hotel for this vacation, just a cramped beach house with more people in it than local fire codes allow. As always, going on vacation with children is 50 times more stressful than just staying home and doing nothing, but my protests again fell on deaf ears. That means no live FUNBAG this week, which is a shame, because we're only seven years away from perfecting it in the Kinja format. Now, your letters:
What's the proper way to seat two couples at a sporting event?
BOY BOY GIRL GIRL. This isn't a Barefoot Contessa summer brunch party. There's no need to intersperse genders like my mom always does at Christmas. Far better to have the two men sitting together to talk about SPORTS AND BEER AND CRUSHIN' PUSSY while the ladyfolk talk about lady things, like weaving, and cherry scone recipes, and the best way to get stains out of curtains. That's totally what all women talk about. BO-RING.
As a bonus, if you're on the edge in this situation, you can always do that thing where, an hour into the game, you lean over and catch your wife's eye and are like, "Hi honey! Are you having fun?" It's like you're checking in on them while on a business trip a thousand miles away.
Why is it that we have never seen Superman (or Superboy, or whatever the heck he was in Smallville) have any sort of sporting desire? In this modern age, surely he would have driven his parents crazy wanting to try for little league or pee-wee football at some point, or at least track in high school.
If you go by the Superman mythology, Superman wouldn't play sports because that would give away his true identity. Also, Superman would be dominating football games for his own enjoyment, which would make him a GLORY BOY and nothing at all like the selfless, gritty, scrappy Clark Kent we all know and love.
And remember, Clark Kent is supposedly a NERDY NERDLINGER who probably isn't interested in sports because he's a loser, a loser who just happens to be the most powerful being to reside within the Earth's atmosphere. I'm sure that remarkable power wouldn't go to his head at all!
The Superman story is better this way, frankly. You don't want to go the theater and watch Doucherman, where Clark Kent suddenly realizes that being Superman means you can single-handedly win football games and score all the hot pussy you want, and then adjusts his priorities accordingly. Then you'd have the citizens of Metropolis drafting legislation to keep him out of all four major sports leagues so that he doesn't make the games boring, and then you'd have Tony Kornheiser objecting and saying PEOPLE LOVE DYNASTIES, and then Superman would hang out at Marquee and use his x-ray vision to browse for shaved ladyparts. That's not a story that America is ready to hear. We cannot handle Doucherman's truth.
Do you prefer the morning workday poop or the late afternoon workday poop? I like the poop in the morning after I've only accomplished powering on my computer and realizing all the stupid crap I have to deal with during the day. Pooping during those dreadful pre-9:00 AM minutes is crucial because at my desk I would just be regretting my life's path up to this point.
No one likes pooping under duress, and the morning poop is more likely to an angry, harried affair. I have to shit before the client comes in! That's no fun. You want time to BASK in the act of pooping. You want it to be a critical time-burner in the middle of a boring day.
This is more information that you need, but my morning bowel movements are ALWAYS poorly timed. Two kids need to be dressed for school, the baby needs his diaper changed, and the life insurance agent is about to drop by when suddenly my digestive system is like, "YOU NEVER MAKE TIME FOR ME ANYMORE." That's no fun. Much better to shit in the afternoon, when everyone has eaten lunch and no one wants to do anything, and you're just dying to leave. A 20-minute toilet session can really help push the day along.
So I am watching highlights of Sunday night's NBA Finals game on Monday morning in the office when I get the following pop-up ad in my video stream:
Terrified, I checked the website on my phone, since I try to be diligent about steering my work computer away from semen-related websites. Turns out it is a marketer of "semen tanks for the bovine, deer, equine, goat, sheep and canine artifical insemination industry." They also have a Twitter account, @SemenTanksCom.
"We have the semen tank you need for your artificial breeding program." THANK GOD. You can get an equine semen transporter (hard case) for just $75. That's not bad! Even though the idea of a tank holding potential gallons of horse semen is horrifying, it's also a somewhat reassuring demonstration of the power of capitalism. If there's a market for anything out there, someone has found a way to make money off it. There are horse semen tank providers. There are deer urine milkers. There are the people who make the shit you buy at Spencer Gifts. People fill the cracks.
I went to the lamp repair store the other day to get my lamp fixed, and as the guy took my lamp to the back to get it to stop flickering, I wondered if he was happy. Like, did he own this store because he adores fixing lamps? Is that his true PASSION? Or did he just fall into the lamp trade? Do you have to go to school for lamp repair? Is it a more lucrative field than I'm aware of? I wonder if that guy fucking HATES lamps now, and spends all his time at home in a dark room because the idea of touching one more goddamn lamp makes him sick. If I worked in a lamp store, I would rub every single lamp every day just to make sure I wasn't missing out on a genie.
Something I saw recently about the amount of dead people scattered on Mt. Everest reminded me of something I have wondered for a while. Roughly how many dead people do you think there are buried around the earth (including people who just died in extreme conditions like Mt. Everest) outside of proper cemeteries? Like, people who died in fringe battles of major wars, people who fell overboard into the ocean, people who now sleep with the fishes in the Hudson River, bodies of missing hitchhikers buried in a shallow makeshift forest grave, the aforementioned Mt Everest group, etc. Multiple millions maybe?
Definitely. There are, by some estimates, over 100 billion people who have ever lived. I imagine few of them had proper burials or cremations. Think people who have been killed in volcano eruptions, swept away by tidal waves, swallowed by ice crevasses, dumped in mass graves, and shot and left for dead. Plus everyone who vanished before dying. You're probably talking about billions of people. Why, you could be standing on a skull as we speak!
I wondered if you could literally bury that many people and have enough room on the Earth's surface, so I did some basic math. The average funeral casket is seven feet long and over two feet (28", to be precise) wide. If all 108 billion people who have ever lived were buried side by side, the resulting cemetery would take up over 63,000 square miles of landmass, a little smaller than the size of Wisconsin. That's not much in grand scheme of things. So when people tell you that cemeteries are a waste of space, just let them know that there's still PLENTY of room out there for all our dead bodies. GOODY!
Sometimes I wonder why we bury people at all. Obviously, you need to do something about a corpse before putrefaction sets in, but I'm not wild with either burial or cremation as an after-death option. I am terrified that I'll die, be buried, and then wake up. Or that I'll die, be set on fire, and then wake up. I really don't want that to happen, even if the odds are low. I need the odds to be zero. Better to just leave my corpse in a baller hotel room and send in a new hooker to defile it every hour. THAT IS DYIN' LIKE YER LIVIN', PEOPLE.
Given the amount of imported fruit and vegetables from all over the world and multiple people handling them every single year before going on shelves, what do you think the nastiest thing someone you know has unknowingly ingested? Monkey sperm? Or something worse?
Poop, sperm, various bugs and human meat are all on everyone's "I hope I didn't eat that list," but I'll still go with roach eggs. If you swallow poop, at least it's over with. It stays poop. There's a special horror in eating something that is alive and has the potential to grow. That's the worst nightmare.
I read a textbook once that showed the parasitic worms you can end up shitting out if you eat too much raw pork (mmmm... raw pork). The picture scarred me for life. At any moment, there could be roach hatchlings or little spaghetti worms wriggling around inside me. What if I go to take a shit one day and a litter of live baby scorpions comes out? OH GOD PLEASE TELL ME THAT ISN'T THE CASE. You know it's happened to someone out there.
I just got engaged, so I'm in that period where I get to imagine how kickass everyone will say my wedding is without having to do any actual planning yet. The one thing I keep imagining is having enough money to hire any band/singer I want for the wedding. I keep ending up on like Justin Timberlake or Bruno Mars because bands that actually rock, like the Black Keys, wouldn't really be able to play all the sentimental shit you need at a wedding. Who would be your choice?
Yeah, you have to sacrifice your own tastes so that everyone at the wedding has a fun time. That's kind of the worst part of the wedding, because every guy who starts out in the wedding racket is like WE'RE NOT GONNA HAVE SOME DIPSHIT NORMAL WEDDING. WE'RE GONNA HIRE FUCKING SLAYER FUCK YEAH. And then your fiancee crushes your dreams and you hope that the band or DJ plays at least one Replacements song before going into the KC and the Sunshine Band catalog. With the enjoyment of your guests in mind (fucking guests), someone like JT or Mars seems like a decent choice to play some Motown covers, mix in a few old standards, and also do contemporary hits. Or you could go full troll and hire some asshole Swedish DJ to play your wedding and fill the reception hall with dry ice and laser beams and just confuse the hell out of the all the old people. "This night is gonna be an AMAZING night! (turns bass up to five thousand)."
Why do they even make dress shirts and that are not wrinkle-free? Who is more to blame for this, Big Iron, or Big Dry Cleaning?
The worst part is that I can talk myself into thinking my shirt doesn't look THAT wrinkled. I'll look at some shirt I've worn seven times without dry cleaning and think to myself Hey, that still looks pretty sharp. And then someone sends me a photo from the cocktail party and I look like a fucking panhandler dressing up for a meeting with his parole officer.
But that's just a sign of how much men despise going to the dry cleaner. Walking out of a dry cleaner with two shirts on wire hangers cloaked in formaldehyde-drenched plastic is an exercise in aggravation. Do I sling this over my shoulder? That looks elegant, right? Or do I just hold up all the way back to the car, like a fucking pud? Then I try to hang it on the little hook by the back door of the car and NEVER get it on the first try. Or I lay it down gently in the back seat, like I'm about to change a baby. IF THE SHIRT GETS WRINKLED ALL HOPE IS LOST. Shirts are bullshit.
You know those electronic traffic signs that don't do anything really other than show you how fast you're going? And they blink and shit when you go above the speed limit? Have you ever timed it perfectly so that you blow past one perfectly in line with a slower (ie legal speed limit) car, and it only shows the slow car's speed? Good god it's THRILLING. I feel like Tubbs in the Miami Vice movie when he flies the jet back into America directly underneath the other jet and they appear just as one jet on the radar.
I never know whose car the sign is ratting on. It could be the one passing by the sign, or it could be one 20 yards away from it. Half the time, I think the thing is programmed to just spit out random numbers between 40 and 70 every half a second. It's naggy bullshit. If you wanna arrest me, ARREST ME. Let's not play silly games, copper. I'M NOT AFRAID OF YOU, PIGS.
How much would you pay for a picture of Johnny Manziel doing cocaine?
Just to be sure, I checked with Craggs. Here is his full pricing guide...
• Johnny Manziel doing blow off the corpse of Pablo Escobar: $10,000
• A Manziel-looking person standing in the vicinity of cocaine-looking white powder: $5
By the way, time to revisit what Gregggggggg Easterbrook said about Manziel winning the Heisman (Easterbrook stumped for Manti Te'o instead because Te'o was a four year starter and was the spiritual love child of Mitt Romney and Barack Obama)...
For Manziel, being the first frosh to win the Heisman may turn out to be a curse. The Good Book warns, "Woe unto you when all speak well of you."
My God! The prophecies have come true! Quick, everyone! LOCK YOURSELVES IN YOUR BASEMENTS BEFORE THE MURDERCROWS ARRIVE THREE DAYS HENCE.
I recently moved in with my boyfriend of five years. We get along quite well and (as of right now) I enjoy coming home to him every day. However, from the moment we see each other, his hand is constantly down his pants scratching his balls. Not occasionally or every once in a while, I'm talking about full-on scratching and flapping and jiggling from about 5pm to bed time. He says this is how every guy is after a hard day at work but I can't help but get annoyed when we're eating a nice dinner and he passes the salad dressing I asked for with the hand that was just shoved down his pants itching his manjigglies. Am I being too harsh or is this how every guy is upon arriving home?
Every guy has to indulge in ball-scratching, but not every guy pulls the full Al Bundy and sticks his hand down his pants and leaves it there for seven hours. I used to do this in high school because A) It felt great and B) I thought it made me look cool. Like, I legitimately thought people would see grabbing my balls and be like THAT MAGARY GUY DON'T GIVE A FUCK ABOUT NUTHIN'! Of course, I ended up giving off the exact opposite impression. Girls were repulsed. That's a standard teenage boy thing: If I can't have sex with you, I'll just do everything in my power to gross you out. Bonus points if you dip while doing it!
So your boyfriend is probably a bit old to be pulling that sort of thing. He should be granted the right to adjust and scratch as needed. Sometimes you can satisfy this urge by going over your pants. Sometimes, you have to dig down and pull your balls out from between your deathly hot thighs. But there's no need to keep one hand on the satchel at all times. You can put your foot down. You can say to him, "Look, I know you have to manage your parts down there, but that's fucking gross. Do it when you gotta do it, or else that hand never touches this boob." And then stick your boob out. Men listen to boobs.
Knowing your teams strengths and weaknesses from following pro football, how do you think you would do running the draft for that team if your only resource is mock drafts and columns by sportswriters? For example, you can read Mel Kiper and Todd McShay, but you cannot watch any video or have any scouts. You're limited to watching cable television and reading major websites or magazines. Is it possible that, by eliminating any personal observations at all and relying on totally neutral groupthink, you'd actually make better picks? I literally watched under five minutes of college football in 2012. However, I am a big Jets fan and am confident I could do a solid job drafting just off what I read on ESPN and Rotoworld.
That's the lure of the draft. It LOOKS easy. All the players have been loosely ranked for you, before you even have to make a pick. That why people like to watch the NFL and NBA drafts. You get to fancy yourself an executive for a moment and imagine that your eye for talent is equal to (or, frankly, better than) the dipshit running your team. With only general mock draft consensus to work with, you'd probably do all right for the first round or two. You wouldn't necessarily do a better job than every other team, but you'd probably have the same hit-or-miss ratio. Anyone can make a first round pick.
The problem is those later rounds. Well-run teams like Pittsburgh and Green Bay probably have a better hit percentage on their fourth and fifth round picks than other teams, and that makes all the difference. The Bengals were notorious for not having a scouting department for years and years. When they hired two scouts a a year ago, they tripled the number of scouts in their organization. And the Bengals have the long history of suck needed to prove that it's a poor idea to draft on instinct and PFW player capsules alone.
Think about if you were put in charge of an NFL team and you did this for real. You fired all the scouts and you told everyone that Kiper's analysis was all you needed. And you stuck your hand down your pants in the war room because you had it all to yourself. You'd be Dan Snyder. People would fucking HATE you. Everyone would accuse you of being a cheap asshole who knows nothing about football, and they'd be right.
If you could ride any animal now or in the past, what would be the most awesome? It has to be the raptor or some flying predator, right?
A pterodactyl, for certain. It flies AND it kills, like having your own giant DEATHHAWK to ride around on. That beats any land-based animal, even a lion. I think we'd all like to saddle up a lion and be like WHO'S KING NOW, BITCH?! But you gotta go with a flying animal. You could pretend you're living on Pandora, like a fucking asshole.
I was showering at the gym the other day, while in an adjacent shower stall some guy let out the biggest, loudest, wettest shower fart you could possibly imagine. I was able to hold in my laughter, but barely. Then, all of a sudden he bursts into laughter over it so immediately I do the same. So there we are, just two grown men laughing hysterically to each other over a shower fart. I’m telling you the rest of my day was made because of how good of a laugh I had.
Awww, that's cute!
What's your take on using a laptop while in the bathroom? Everyone loves pulling out their phone to pass time while sitting on the throne, so why not take it a step further and go for the laptop? I've done this on occasion, I'm a college student with roommates and I assume they think I just went in to the bathroom for a quick wank. What are the consequences of using a laptop while in the bathroom? P.S. I did not write this email from the shitter.
I would never do it just because of the logistics involved. You have to walk into the bathroom, put the laptop on the sink (or hold it up with one hand like you're a waiter delivering a tray of cocktails, which is the world's lamest/most annoying way to hold a laptop), drop your pants, sit down, and then place a scorching hot laptop on your bare thighs, giving the potential radiation a clear path to your genitals. That doesn't strike me as comfortable at all.
And then what happens when you're finishing up? If you're in a stall, you have to balance the laptop WHILE wiping. The potential for disaster is enormous. I use my phone while pissing and shitting and I know I'll drop it into the can one day. That's the cost of doing business. But getting fecal matter on a keyboard or dropping an entire computer into a toilet just isn't worth it.
Email of the week time! It's a GREAT MOMENT IN POOP HISTORY.
My wife called me at work today to let me know that our 10 month old daughter had just shit on the floor. The baby scampered away mid diaper change. Of course she is unwilling to stay still for the 2 minutes it takes to complete the task. My wife realized this was a battle she was not going to win. So, rather than endure a pissed off baby, she let her crawl around for a bit with no diaper on. After a few minutes she wrangled the little savage and got her dressed and moved on with her day.
At this point she started to smell something slightly askew but attributed the scent to the fact that she had just changed the baby's diaper. Little did she know that there was a deuce lurking in the shadows. Apparently the color of our carpet acts as some sort of fecal camouflage. So sure enough a few minutes she took a step right in the phantom loaf that my child had just pinched off. At this point she calls me to inform me of my daughters indiscretion. While on the phone she stepped on yet another pile of my daughters poop.
The part of the whole incident that I found most strange is that it didn't gross us out at all. In fact we shared in a quite hearty laugh. She just stepped on not one, but two turds and we go about our day like nothing had happened. Why does baby shit hold such a different stigma than adult shit? I mean we have had her shit on our hands, feet, carpet and clothes. Seriously, her poop has no boundaries. Meanwhile, if I walked into the bathroom right now and someone left a log in the toilet my instant reaction would be "what the fuck?!?!" If I ever stepped in another adults shit unknowingly, I might need treatment for PTSD. I would be absolutely fucking mortified. If I step in my baby's shit I think, "Awww! Well isn't this going to be a funny story for the next family get together!"
Drew Magary writes for Deadspin and Gawker. He's also a correspondent for GQ. Follow him on Twitter @drewmagary and email him at firstname.lastname@example.org. You can also buy Drew's book, Someone Could Get Hurt, through his homepage.