It's been in the 80s here in DC this week, which means this is the first time this year I've been able to bust out the shorts. And when you bust out the shorts, that means it is, once again, open season on bareball nut scratching. All winter long, I gotta scratch my nuts by digging into my jeans. NOT ANYMORE. No, when shorts weather breaks out, that means I am now free to run my hand along my own thigh, go up through the pant leg, under the boxers, and gain full access to the bare nutsack. OH WHAT A DELIGHT. To be able to manually pull loose scrotum away from my inner thigh… BLISS. No more jamming my hand down the pants. Just an easy, express ride up the shorts to salvation. Oh warm weather, how I missed you.
Before I get to the letters, a brief announcement: I'll be in Phoenix on Thursday. Thursday night, I'll be eating and drinking at the Gordon Biersch brewery right near the new Cardinals Stadium. Probably around 8. You are more than welcome to come on down to the generic armpit known as Glendale to join me. Now, your letters:
Kwaz:
Is Geno Auriemma actually proud of his achievements with the UConn Women's team? Wouldn't he jump at the opportunity to coach a real NCAA D-1 Men's program? If he got such an offer RIGHT NOW wouldn't he jump at the opportunity to pull a Brian Kelly and switch to coaching real college basketball even if he had to skip the final?
I'm glad Kwaz brought this up because it's been on my mind. Namely, what the fuck is this guy still doing coaching girls? He's won five national titles, and this will be his fourth undefeated season. There is NOTHING left for Geno Auriemma to do at the women's level of basketball. He's already the best women's coach of all time (you can say Pat Summit is, except that I don't care enough to argue). What would five more undefeated seasons do for his legacy? Nothing. He's already kicked the living shit out of everyone multiple times over. It's diminishing returns.
I have an idea for you, Geno. How about you stop fucking around with the Easy level of Madden and try something moderately more difficult? Kwaz thinks Auriemma would jump at the chance to coach men. I disagree. I find it hard to believe that not a single men's program in D-I has at least tried to gauge his interest. Why wouldn't they? Let's say you're some random BCS conference team like, I dunno, Colorado. You're not really known as a basketball school, and you spend most of your time as scheduling filler for the Kansases of the world. Why wouldn't you ask this guy to coach your team? If he sucks, you can him after two years. Big fucking deal. It's not like those two years were going to be awesome anyway. It's well worth hiring the guy and drawing all the attention to your program to see if he can really coach men or not. I would tune in to watch him coach men. I really would. I'd watch a reality show about it. Just the idea of one player saying to him, "Fuck you. I'm not listening to a GIRLS coach," would make for astounding TV. I would WANT Auriemma to succeed in coaching men, and I think he eventually would.
But I don't think Auriemma will do that. I read in SI that he's, "searching for the perfect game" or some nebulous Lombardi-type bullshit like that. What a lame excuse to stick around in women's basketball. The guy has no business there. It's like a rocket scientist working in a Wendy's. You've had your fun, Geno. But it's time for you to ditch your comfort zone and take on something challenging now.
If Auriemma went to a men's program and turned it into a powerhouse, it would enhance both his own reputation and that of women's basketball. So what the fuck is he waiting for? QUIT BEING A PUSSY AND TRY COACHING MEN, GENO. YOU KNOW IT'S THE RIGHT THING TO DO.
Tadhg:
Don't you hate it when you accidentally step on something wet with your socks on? Such an unpleasant feeling. And that sock won't dry out until fucking Haley's comet reappears.
It's awful, and I'm always too lazy to go and change my socks. God forbid I exert extra effort (unlike Geno Auriemma, I have free rein to be as lazy as I choose). When I was a kid, I used to turn the sock round on my foot, so the wet part was no longer on the bottom. So I'd have this twisted, retarded sock on one foot with a wet top. Dunno why I did that.
Stepping on something wet in my socks is one of those things that makes me unreasonably angry. The second it happens, I just fucking RAGE. "Oh, FUCK! God dammit! Will you look at that! These socks are fine cotton!"
Ian:
I work with a guy whose brother went and got a tattoo during spring break. The picture is attached. How bad is he going to regret this? How much would I have to pay you to get the exact same tattoo? What if your son came home with this tattoo? I personally would lay awake at night wondering just how shitty my genes and influence are.
Holy Christ, that is awful. That doesn't even LOOK like a cunt. It looks like he got a tattoo of an onion (ironic given that the tattoo is located on his ass, and his ass is relatively flat. NOT an onion booty). I don't even think it was a tattoo artist who did this work. It looks like Eyeball from Stand By Me gave it to him. If I were you, I'd buy a dildo and poke him in the tattoo with it all day long.
When you think about it, aren't ALL cunts fuck cunts? I say yes.
JimmyFax:
Is there anything more shameful then going into the bathroom at work, needing to take a shit, and seeing that all the stalls are full? Your only options are to take a leak, pretending that you didn't need to shit (I do this all the time for no readily apparent reason), or to forcefully stomp out, making it clear to your co-workers that you're off to more hospitable pooping ground. For some reason, just leaving and coming back later is not an option.
Oh, I get terribly mad when that happens. How DARE these people shit when I need to shit? Where's the decency? Unlike Jimmy, I do turn around and leave when that happens, and it's so embarrassing, because I know full well that they heard the door open and close. They know precisely why I walked in and why I left. They know they stonewalled my asshole. Fuckers.
We've talked before about toilet intuition, in which your ass will prepare to release once it knows a toilet is very close by. That's why it's agony to come to a series of full stalls (especially somewhere like an airport). Your brain has already signaled to begin the asshole "blooming" process. Now, that process has to be cut off while you desperately find another can. It can get pretty hairy.
Eric:
Last week I was taking a walk on a path through a forest preserve near my house when I suddenly needed to pee. When I noticed nobody was around I whipped it out. As I began scanning the ground for a suitable plant to destroy, I noticed a snake about 5 feet away. It wasn't poisonous, or big enough to swallow or crush me, so I turned my water cannon about 20 degrees to the right and pissed on its head. My snake: 1, God's snake: 0.
Well done, sir. If I'm pissing in the woods, and there's no woodland creature to piss on, I become obsessed with making sure my piss gets maximum COVERAGE. In other words, I become compulsive about wetting the largest amount of surface area on the ground that I can. You know, for fertilizing. If I cover a good mount of ground, I become very impressed with myself. Look at that. THAT'S PRACTICALLY AN ACRE!
Speaking of target practice, the other day I went to shit and then realized, after standing up, that I had to piss. Since I hadn't flushed the toilet yet, that meant I could let it rip on the floaters in the bowl. Well, I let it fly and landed my piss smack down on one of the chocologs, assuming the force of impact would break it into magnificent pieces, and then… nothing. I'm telling you, my piss didn't even knock a flake off of these turds. It's like they had been scotchguarded. I was dumbfounded. I did not know my rectum had the ability to lacquer objects. You'd have thought I spent the day before chugging Thompson's Water Seal. I had half a mind to reach in and grab the things. Just an incredibly airtight batch of poop.
William:
I bit this piece of cheese into the shape of New Jersey. Not bad, huh?
Not bad at all.
Todd:
As a fellow dad and fatass, I'm sure you steal your kids' juice boxes every now and again. What is it about the juice box that makes you inhale all of the juice, and continue to inhale until you crush the sides of the box? I did it the other day in front of my wife, and let out a satisfactory "YES!" after dispatching of that weak juice box with my EXTREME LUNG CAPACITY. She was less than impressed.
Not only that, I'll collapse it, then I'll cover the straw with my thumb so that the box remains imploded. I have no idea why I do that. There's something deeply satisfying about taking my thumb off, seeing the box inflate, and then seeing the little strawhole mark on my thumb. Sometimes it's enough to make a little temporary bump there, which is cool. I'll drink a plastic Coke bottle, suck out all the air, then stick my finger in the top and leave it there, walking around with the bottle vacuumed to my finger for a second. Then my finger gets all red (which is cool), then I pull the bottle off and it's like POP! I'm 33, and I still find this amusing. We have seltzer in the house (I drink gallons of the shit), and if a bottle is crazy fizzy, I'll jam my finger in the top to trap the bubbles and air inside. TRY AND GET OUT NOW, CARBON DIOXIDE! I HAVE YOU PRECISELY WHERE I WANT YOU.
I give my kids baths, and there are all kinds of cups in the bath. Every time I give the kid a bath, I will grab a cup, put it underwater, turn it upside down, and then slowly pull it out of the water, so the water is trapped inside the cup and gets pulled above the surface. I don't even pay attention to my kid. I'm just like, LOOK AT THAT FUCKING WATER! THAT IS SO COOL! I AM MISTER WIZARD.
When I took my own baths when I was kid, I'd stay in the tub until the tub was drained completely. Then I'd slip-slide all around the wet tub and, as a final coup, I would press my lower back firmly against the bottom of the tub, making a giant suction cup. Then I'd make a little bridge and the suction would cause it to make a farting sound. I'd do this until my back was purple. The rare plus of being a fat kid.
HALFTIME!
Darin:
Whenever I take a long trip on the interstate by myself in the car I play this great game. I see how long I can let go of the wheel and stay in my lane. I will actually time it in seconds. Sometimes, I will get a really good time going and I won't grab the wheel until I'm almost off the road. If I'm in the right lane and start slowly drifting to the left lane I'll just simply put on my blinker and act like I'm changing lanes, of course without touching the wheel. My best is 24 seconds. I was so pleased with myself when I achieved this time, as if I had beat some world record. Does anyone else do this?
I do it, but I lack the nerve to hold it for 24 seconds. I dare say that you are irresponsible, sir.
I'll let go of the wheel in front of the wife, and I'll always tell her it's because I'm "checking the alignment." This is a bald lie. I just wanna go hands-free for a second. It feels so freeing.
This brings up a vital question: How do you folks grip the steering wheel? Because I always take great pains to grip the wheel as casually as humanly possible. I NEVER drive with both hands. Ever. Almost always, my left hand is in my lap, with about three fingers lazily wrapped around the bottom of the wheel. That's how I drive. It's beyond reckless. But I've seen those people who always drive with both hands on the wheel, at the 10 and 2 o'clock positions. Those people are always, without fail, fucking terrible drivers who jerk the wheel the second they see a goddamn pigeon fly overhead. Much better to barely hold onto the wheel. My wife will sometimes grab my right hand (which I keep free to operate the radio and air con) and place it on the wheel if she thinks I'm being too casual. BACK OFF, WOMAN.
One more thing: When I was a kid riding my bike, I always took my hands off the handlebars to see how far I could go without steering. I thought it was cool as shit. Every kid did this. But here's the thing: Any grown, adult biker who is riding in traffic and doing the same thing? HUUUUUGE douche. Just an incredibly douchey move.
Brendan:
What do you think the ratio of guy-poop to woman-poop is in any given office? I'd guess it's about a 5-1 ratio, but I hope is more like 100-1. Do girls shit at work?
I have to think they only shit at work if they have to. And, if they have to, it's because there's something pent up inside them that looks like the fucking Balrog. So while more men may poop at work, I say more women are having violent, diarrhetic episodes there. You don't want to be in the can three hours after Susie went to Chipotle.
Jazbo:
What is your feeling on cleaning your feet in the shower? My personal rule is there has to be visible dirt on them, for me to go through the labor of bending down to clean them. I assume the soap and urine that splashes on them is enough in all other cases. Must be even worse when you are fat and lazy.
Agreed on the policy. Same goes for the leg shank. I soap to the knee, and that's it. But there's another reason why I don't bother to soap the bottom of my feet, and that is safety. Whenever I soap the bottom of my feet and then stand in the shower, I feel like I'm three seconds away from slipping and busting open my fucking skull on the tile.
I have also yet to find away to wash my face that doesn't involve taking a bunch of lather (in my hands or on a cloth) and then whitewashing the shit out of my own face, getting soap on my eyelids and my lips and in my nostrils, forcing me to quickly get my face rinsed before I open my mouth, my eyes, or I inhale, lest I ingest fifty gallons of soap bubbles. I am still a complete primitive when it comes to face washing. There has to be a gentler way.
There was a time about 10 years ago when pore strips were all the rage with chicks. These were the Band Aids you put on your nose for five minutes, then you peeled it back and it uncovered all the dirt and spider eggs nesting in your skin. Well, my wife always wanted me to do these, and I'd always be like, "Fuck no. That's girl shit." But, secretly, I quite enjoyed the process of jamming something on my face and then ripping it off. Kinda fun.
Rich M:
Whenever I'm leaving my house and I press the button to open the garage door, I always get a sense of drama when the door starts s-l-o-w-l-y rising to reveal the outside world. What will I find out there? I usually fantasize about three options. One is that a menacing horde is descending upon my house, and it's up to me to fight them off. The second is that I find a bloody corpse mutilated in my driveway, and I am certain that the cops will think that I'm the killer, which allows me to speed off to work as if I'm escaping the crime. The third is that I find some damsel in distress who happened to faint in my driveway while out picking berries or escaping from her insensitive boyfriend, so I need to pick up her up and carry her into the house (bride and groom style, of course) to revive her and care for her. Am I the only one who does this?
Don't forget opening it to reveal a sun made entirely of blood, and a land populated exclusively by zombie vampires. Gotta have that blood sun. If I had a garage, I'd totally be there man.
Garage doors are enjoyably dramatic. I can never back out of a garage without thinking first of driving right through the fucking door, either on purpose or by accident. Far too tempting to not picture in my mind. It's just like driving by barricaded ramp on a highway. Man, I pass one of those and I just want to plow right through that fucker, drive up the incomplete overpass, and pull a Thelma and Louise. GLORIOUS.
Jake:
Whenever I drive for more than half an hour, I start massively sweating on my lower back. Doesn't matter that temperature in the car, it always happens and it's the only part of my body sweating. Makes zero sense. Does anyone else have sweating problems when driving for long period of times?
It makes perfect sense. Your lower back can't get to air when you're seated in the car. That's why it sweats. I get the lower back AND the ass sweat, especially in summer.
When I was in high school, I drove a piece of shit Oldsmobile that had no FM radio or air conditioning. So I bought one of those beaded seat covers, the kind Turkish cab drivers used to have. I thought it looked quite sharp. And I hoped it would get rid of the swampass. It did NOTHING.
Ray:
Do you gag when you brush your teeth? The nastiest germs in your mouth (that make your breath smell like dook in the mornings) are all the way in the back of your mouth. It is now to the point that if I do not gag, then I don't feel I have successfully cleaned my tongue/roof of my mouth. Yes, my wife thinks I am disgusting and has to leave the bathroom every time I brush my teeth. Yes, I do occasionally accidentally throw up just a little bit.
I do not gag when I brush my teeth. I only gag when I go to the dentist and they give me x-rays. They stick that hard plastic in the back of my mouth and then I gag for all my life. The kicker is that the hygienist always looks surprised that I'm gagging. Lady, you're jamming an origami in the back of my throat. What did you expect? I hate dental x-rays.
Mrs. Drew says when you throw up a little and then choke it back down, that's called "pizza juice." I find it an appropriate term, because it makes me want to throw up a little and then choke it back down.
Tyler:
I've spent far too much time over the past few days wondering how unimaginably awful it would be to fall to your death from an airplane. Say that you get sucked out of a plane at 30,000 feet (probably after heroically fighting terrorists). Not only are you going to die, but it's going to be a few minutes first.
How do you think it works, is your brain merciful enough to render you immediately unconscious for the duration of your fall? Or are the last few minutes of your life filled with conscious terror of which we can't even conceive?
I'd like to think it's not merely coincidence that I read Tyler's email two days before I'm scheduled to go skydiving for the first time. NOTE: If you find on Tuesday that there is no mailbag, it's because the chute didn't open.
Anyway, most accounts I've read is that, should the roof of your airplane be ripped off at 30,000 feet, you would quickly pass out from lack of oxygen and changes in air pressure. Thus, you plummet to Earth in a state of happy sleep, fighting dragons and boning Lana from Archer. I think.
Since I've been, oh, 14 years old, I have always had a plan in my mind ready in case my plane is on the verge of crashing. I am going to run to the back of the airplane, throw open the rear cargo door, and jump from the back of the plane juuuust as the plane is hitting the ground (just like in my elevator crashing fantasy). That way, I completely negate the terminal velocity of our descent, and I go gently rolling to the ground while everyone else bursts into flames in a cornfield. I don't think my plan has many holes.
Jake:
Would you rather have a gay son or a daughter that is a huge porn star. This was a pretty big debate among my roommates. If the gay son was real flamboyant and a figure skater or something I would rather have the porn star.
Then you're a fucking idiot. I get this question all the time. "Hey, would you rather have a gay kid or a retarded kid?" It's 2010, people. I'd FAR prefer the gay kid. Any day. Fuck, I'd prefer to have a gay kid over a hetero kid. They'd be cleaner. They'd enjoy cooking with me. They'd be less likely to have grandkids, which I'd have to end up supporting. A porn star kid? No fucking thank you. A well-adjusted gay kid? I'd go to fucking church every week for that. If he ends up just like Anthony from Project Runway, all the better. That guy is the SHIT.
72 Virgins:
Ever hold bad guys hostage? Me neither. However I have discovered the white collar equivalent.
My friend Dave, a Phillies fan, and I, Cubs fan, were walking to the elevator on the 22 floor after another fun day of selling insurance. Dave asks if I thought Steve Bartman was still in hiding. We get on the elevator and Dave asks what it's like having a better team share the same town as the Cubs. Dave is almost 40 and has a new daughter at home. He takes the train. And like all the other suburbanites he times the train to the minute. The doors close. He pushes "L." I look at Dave's shit eating grin. I push "20." I'm not catching a train.
"What are you doing?"
"How much money is in your wallet Dave?"
"Dude I have to catch my train!" The elevator descends one floor. Doors open. Doors close. No one boards. The elevator begins descending again.
"I'll ask again David, how much cash do you have? And how much would you pay to see Nina before bedtime tonight?"
"Dude don't be an asshole just 'cause the Cubs suck, I have like three minutes to get to the train."
"HOW MUCH IS IT WORTH TO YOU DAVID!"
"uh..."
I push "13."
Doors open. Doors close. He's seething. I hover my finger over the panel. We're in a fucking stand off on an elevator on a Tuesday in Philadelphia. We descend.
"If I miss my train, my wife is going to kill me."
"That's sad, David."
Still descending, 8, 7, 6... I lower my hand. His daughter will have tattoos by 14 and marry a some Eagles fan who attends Wing Bowl every year. He'll suffer enough. He's relieved. He thinks it's over. He's going to make it. He'll get to see Nina smile before bed and it will make all the insurance sales worth it.
The elevator stops. On three. Two lawyers get on. The doors begin to close, "Hey hold that!" Lawyer number two holds the door for his friends. The doors reopen.
Dave missed his train.
"Elevator hostage" has been an office favorite ever since.
You are an evil, evil man.