Today, we’re talking about couples therapy, rude coaches, Charles Dickens, food gentrification, great feats of acting, and more.
Drew Magary is out this week doing god knows what (DEADSPIN AWARDS, DECEMBER 5, IRVING PLAZA, NEW YORK CITY) and has for some reason allowed me, editor in chief of Jezebel, to fill in. He’ll be back next week, so if you hate my shit, I don’t want to hear it! If you love my shit, I don’t want to hear that, either! I am an emotionless cyborg, crafted purely for the purpose of contemplating all the profound questions you transport my way. I feel nothing. Strap in, smokers, because I just popped three CBD gummies and am here to be the interim advice administrator/question-answerer in your life (today).
Jason:
Sad that civility and common sense don’t reign at my place of employment. What’s your take on biggest scourge in a men’s workplace restroom: phone conversations from a stall, not lifting the seat to take a piss, or not washing hands when done?
I don’t use the men’s restroom at our workplace (our workplace restrooms do not discriminate based on gender expression or identity, I just think urinals are gross) but our work chat is constantly talking about the disgusting shit that goes down in there, to me proving the stereotype that men are more lenient than women when it comes to public restroom cleanliness. Not washing hands is the biggest offender on your list, by far, because nobody should be transferring their dick germs without consent, but here are some other things that have allegedly happened in the Gizmodo Media Group bathrooms:
- Not washing hands
- Drew being unsanitary (apparently? See below)
- Pooping, then covering up poop with paper towels, then not flushing
- Vaping weed
- Smoking weed (don’t tell the fire marshal)
- Sex
I personally would love it if everyone would just dial it back to phone conversations in the stall. Count your blessings!
Relatedly, Matthew:
This is in response to the funbag a few weeks ago where you stated you don’t use anything on the toilet seat. I wanted to take a few weeks to digest the information and make sure I wasn’t overreacting. YOU ARE A FUCKING SAVAGE. What if someone pissed all over that seat? Even if it dried you’re now sitting in someone’s crusty ammonia. Look, I know you can’t get diseases from sitting on a toilet seat, but think of the possible people who have sat on that seat before you. I don’t want someone else’s dead skin hanging around on my pristine buttocks. I know where my buttock’s has been, I don’t know where Dave’s ass from two cubicles down has been. I’ve seen that guy not wash his hands after using the bathroom, I can only imagine his sanitary (or lack thereof) practices with his ass. What if you had to share a toilet seat with Jerry Jones or Donald Trump?
Matthew, I agree with you and believe that Deadspin should fire Drew Magary for his lack of concern about toilet seat gunk and spooge.
Alex:
So I’ve got a loving wife with a baby on the way and a bit of a conundrum. See I’m a long time weed enthusiast but over the past few months my wife is telling me I should stop smoking weed “because I’m in my thirties”. I definitely smoke less, but I don’t want to quit entirely. I find myself hiding my highness from my wife which kills my buzz and makes me feel like a junky. What’s a guy to do?
My guy, your wife is just being nice, and also strategic. She doesn’t want you to stop smoking weed just because you’re in your thirties—she definitely knows that hella people do weed well past that and continue properly conducting adult life, i.e. Willie Nelson, probably a third of Congress, and Kim Kardashian’s grandmother. Your wife wants you to stop smoking weed because it turns you into what I presume is a lethargic dirtbag and she’s freaked out that when she pops the kid you won’t be fully present to help her execute the extreme amount of labor that accompanies caring for a child.
My advice is to tell her you will only smoke weed when she is not around and for the rest of the time, lay off it and help her around the house. Also, she’s probably mad because you are enjoying being stoned while she is enduring the no-doubt obnoxious, physically uncomfortable, and mandatorily sober act of being pregs. Some advice: at some point after she gives birth, surprise her with a platter of sushi, expensive wine, some unpasteurized French cheese, and an edible.
Joseph:
I feel like if the average fan and announcers can keep track of who players are, then coaches can surely do better then calling Aaron Rodgers “The QB” or saying something stupid like “We kept 12 in check.” Are we supposed to believe they don’t have time in their busy schedules to learn the names of players on the other team. This seems far more reasonable for college football since the rosters are 100 players deep. Do you think its meant as a jab or intentionally rude when coaches refer to players by their numbers or position?
Do coaches really do this? My first instinct is that it’s a form of diminishment, Mariah Carey–style, a psychological tactic that subtly tells the opposite team “you are so irrelevant to me you are nothing,” and to their own team that these people are not even human so it’s fine to MURDER AND DISMEMBER THEM (ON THE FIELD). However, I’ve seen enough sports games in my life to know that a lot of these coaches probably only have a finite amount of space in their brains, and if they’re going to remember the plays (which I imagine involves photographically memorizing the arrows and stuff they write with marker on the white boards, I’ve seen Friday Night Lights), they can’t possibly be expected to also download all those names.
I do have a potential solution, though. When Hollywood red carpets occur, the paparazzi and press are the coaches in this scenario—they cannot be expected to know who every celebrity is, particularly now that red carpets are increasingly inviting YouTubers and Instagram influencers in a transparent and weirdly sponconny attempt to stay relevant with the youth. To avoid the embarrassing gaffe of misidentifying a celebrity, there are people running around with clipboards with the celeb’s name written on it, and PR people racing up to the press saying shit like “I have celebrity make-up artist and vlogger Highlighter Cheekbone coming in five minutes,” so if your publication wants you to interview Highlighter Cheekbone, you can pretend like you know her and care about her Angelina Jolie makeup tutorial. (I think politicians do this at fundraising parties, too, at least they do according to an episode of Veep I’ve seen, except instead the irrelevant unknown politicians have fake names like “Chuck Grassley.”)
Similarly, sports coaches should have one of these press people around to whisper in their ears or headsets, “Quarterback number 12 is named Looloo Limon,” so the coach can say, “Keep your eyes on Quarterback Limon” and pretend like he (are there any women football coaches? Wack) is earning his $487 million a year salary.
Even I know who Aaron Rodgers is, though. Olivia Munn’s ex-boyfriend.
Dallas:
Riddle me this:
Can a cup be *filled* with one thing but *full* of another?
I’ve been chewing on this for awhile and haven’t cracked it yet. Maybe you can?
This seems like it is meant to be lewd in some way, but I’m going to treat it like it is not. A cup can be filled with one thing and full of another if we are speaking in metaphors: a cup can be filled with wassail, but also full of joy, with the joy referring to the wassail, and the wassail being the vessel (or meta-vessel) delivering said joy to the carolers who are just trying to stay warm by busking for protein because there is no real joy under industrial capitalism. Charles Dickens, binch! The Victorian era was shite.
HALFTIME!
Steven:
What’s the best nut? I love every nut, even non-nuts like peanuts, but I gotta go with the humble almond. It’s got the versatility—you can have it spicy, sweet, salty, limey, smoked, toasted, slivered. In salads, glued to a chicken cutlet, almond milk is great, and when i eat them at midnight i get to feel good about myself because i’m not eating chips or ice cream. Almonds. Fight me.
I think you’re being misguided by Big Almond. My armchair cultural history-remembering says that they began advertising almonds as a healthy alternative sometime during the Atkins diet craze, somehow conveying that it’s okay to have seven almonds as a snack (absurd), and then it spiraled out of control. Almonds are good for you in moderation, but full of fat and calories and bloating properties! Better than ice cream and chips, for sure, but I just want you to know the truth.
That said: the best nut is the almond. Its versatility, as you note, is unparalleled in the nut world and is comparable only to the seed world (pepitas!), and its subtle flavor teases the palate without overwhelming it. Second to the almond is the piñon nut, which is technically a pinecone seed but has “nut” in its name so counts; the piñon is superior to the almond in the roasting category—the aroma of the montañas!—and is softer and has more give on the tooth, and is good in both savory (pesto) and sweet (pignoli) applications. The third best nut is the peanut, which is only good in the cacahuate enchilados application, ideally if you can buy them in a baggie from a lady on the street. Also, the best mango is the chile mango, also purchasable from the cacahuate lady, or maybe another lady standing next to the cacahuate lady, or from a booth next to a person selling a bunch of junk food from a cart. Mangos don’t traditionally go well with nuts, but Steven, I have faith that you could swing it.
Andrew:
Does [Trump] know what a cat litter box is?
Of all the recent presidents, Trump is most likely to shit in a cat litter box himself, because he is scared of so many things like stairs, rain, and poison. I don’t believe he knows that the litter box is meant for cats, because he has never seen a cat in real life (too rich, too scared); instead, I believe that Ivana recognized his fear of flushing the (gold) toilet early on, and rather than hire a servant to do the flushing, she decided it would be easier and less invasive to advise him that if he simply shits in the litter, there is no possibility that he will actually be sucked into the drain. He agreed to this, I believe, as a viable solution to his phobia of going down the toilet with the vermin, and now requires a (gold-plated) litter box in every bathroom in the White House.
Hope that helps!
Matt:
I saw craft ramen for $4 at the student union where I go to school. Four dollars for instant ramen! Thinking about all so-called craft foods, putting “craft” in front of a food or drink is just a way to sell it for more than it’s worth, right? They aren’t actually that much better.
I don’t know where you are located, but actual craft ramen would be at least $14 in New York City, and so I think you are describing the gentrification of your student union. “Craft” as a concept is definitely a reason to jack up prices, and implies that “craft” doesn’t exist in virtually everything, including like, pulling the lever on the machine that stamps out and freeze-dries the noodles that end up in the little styrofoam cup. “Craft” is like “artisanal” in that it is mostly a bullshit word and unless your ramen is small batch and handmade by like, a secret dude in the back of the cafeteria, your student union is just trying to bilk you/your parents/the demon Sallie Mae for more cash because they know they can. Incidentally, if any of your courses are taught by adjunct professors, $4 is about 20 percent of their biweekly pay, based on my experience having been an adjunct professor. Everyone’s getting fucked in this scenario except your university president and dean, who are probably raking in seven-figure salaries because of low wages and the high cost of ramen. You know what you should do? Is organize a sit-in at your student union. Don’t leave until they lower the ramen prices, and pay your professors more. Just my thoughts!
Email of the week!
TJ:
I just watched this for the tenth time. Objectively, is Steven Seagal closer to being the best actor in the world or the worst? Scale of 1-100. He can’t be 50. Rank him!
This, in addition to being one of the best things I have ever seen, is proof positive that Steven Seagal is the 17th best actor in the world.
Seagal brings to set a professional demeanor and an ease with the material; he doesn’t overact, as so many undeservedly acclaimed actors tend to (see: Matt Damon, Jared Leto, Jennifer Lawrence). Instead, Seagal calmly waits in the paint, a tiger whose instincts to strike have been satiated by a recent meal. He is interested in his lines and in saying them, but he is not interested in an overly simple delivery. You must meet him on his level. At first blush, this may seem as though he cannot be bothered, but instead it is the act of being totally unbothered, which is to say that even a mewling Mike Tyson in fisticuffs stance cannot phase him or his focus on his completely inscrutable, brilliant acting performance. The line he says to the woman which comes out something like “Mrjkjhasdfk” is another layer of acting craft; that a man of his stature in a bar that won’t let you leave until you drink might say something unintelligible is as realist as it gets. Thank you for bringing this into my life.