Is anyone living life better right now than Gronk? Even before the guy won the Super Bowl, he seemed like the happiest person in the world. He lives in a house that has a nickname with his two friends and teammates, owns a party bus, undoubtedly sleeps with beautiful women, parties, and does ridiculous things all the time, and somehow balances all that with work enough that he is arguably the best player at his position.


I think Gronk lives the life that Johnny Manziel is DYING to live, only JFF's not good enough to get away with it. Gronk's life is the white-boy wet dream. I know this because I spent the first two decades of my life praying that I would be a superstar athlete who worked hard but still had the time and the metabolism to get drunk and score all the tail I possibly could. Why play sports otherwise? For the thrill of competition? BORING. It's nice to know that even with all the crazy training regimens and micro-coaching, you can still succeed in the pros AND run a Bangbus subsidiary. It's the same reason I was glad that Shaq managed to win the 2006 NBA title despite being drunk for eight straight months.

By the way, I bet Gronk is playing dumb half the time. He probably knows the name of the book is To Kill a Mockingbird—he just can't endanger the Gronk #brand by acknowledging it. I bet that in private, he studies 16th-century Welsh poetry. What if he doesn't even drink? MY GOD IT'S ALL LIES.



In what situation is it more fun to be sober than to be drunk? It sounds pretty easy to answer, but keep in mind the 'Well, at least you're drunk' factor, and the question gets really tough. Even if you got arrested or trapped on an island, you're at least drunk, so that makes it a little bit fun.


I have been arrested while drunk, and I assure you that you do NOT want to be drunk at that particular moment. I remember sitting at the police station, dying to sober up. I've never wanted to be sober so badly. I didn't have a drink for eight months after that. (Partially due to a court mandate, but still!)

Anyway, as you get older, there are times when you would definitely prefer to be fully lucid: when you're driving, when you're witnessing the birth of a child, etc. But of course, that's not what you're asking. You're asking when it's straight-up more FUN to be sober instead of drunk for something, and I would say that the obvious answer is sex. If I'm sober in bed, I don't have to worry about whiskey dick AND I know I'll remember everything that happens, which is important for future mental use! I think I'd rather be sober for all that. (NOTE: This does not factor in Sex While High, which is a whole other thing.)


Also, pretty much any vigorous sporting activity is better when you're sober (golf does NOT count). You would almost certainly have more fun playing basketball while sober, because you'll play better and you won't need to pause the game to go throw up in the bushes. That seems advantageous. Basketball, white water rafting, skydiving: All of that is better when you're sober. I have been skydiving …

... and I'm glad I wasn't drunk for that.


Would you rather be in jail for five years or homeless for five years? We live in Portland, so it is pretty average weather year-round; one week a year it's cold, one week a year it's hot, but other than that, fairly average. I'm thinking jail, as you have a place to sleep and three squares a day, plus the ability to stay relatively clean. However, once the proposition changes to "prison," I'll take the hobo route.


As always, there's a reason that people spend MILLIONS in legal fees to avoid doing any time in an American prison. You don't want to go there. Being homeless is miserable and often dangerous, but at least you're free. You can watch the sun rise. You can smell fresh grass. You can steal liquor. Those are necessary components of the human condition. I'd take being homeless without hesitation. And then I'd probably regret it after my second night sleeping on a bed of flattened cardboard boxes outside a Walmart.


If you had a full week to practice with your team, could you successfully get through an NFL game as the holder? No other duties (you're not also the backup QB or punter or anything like real holders)—all you'd have to do is hold for PATs and FGs. The actual task doesn't seem that hard if you practice it, right?


The old cliché is that nothing can prepare you for live gameplay, and it's true. You could practice for a full week and get your technique down, but then you gotta do it in front of 70,000 screaming nutjobs. You'd fumble EVERY snap. Every last one. You would fumble the snap, and then you would get pummeled, and then your entire nervous system would collapse. They'd have to carry you off the field because your body was paralyzed with angst. That is what would happen.

Email of the week! It's a GREAT MOMENT IN POOP HISTORY.


I am a Hollywood assistant, which basically means I am an indentured servant. I've been doing this for around seven years, because I want to be a screenwriter. Since there is no way to break into Hollywood and I need a steady job, I choose to do virtually one of the worst jobs on the planet in hopes that one day someone will let me re-write some dialogue for The Expendables 5 or something.

That being said, part of my job is waiting for service appointments to arrive at my boss's house between the hours of such-and-such that always arrive in the fifth hour of a four-hour window. While most people would find this to be a horrible part of their daily lives, I love it, because it means I can sit on my ass and avoid work for half the day. This morning was one of those occasions.

Let me preface this story by saying that the previous night, the lady and I downed a couple bottles of wine on our couch after work. I, being an idiot, decided that I needed to take this a step further and pour myself a whiskey right before bed. When I woke up, I immediately felt my hangover setting in, and decided that I'd try and salvage what's left of my body by flushing it out with a green smoothie from the juice bar next door.

As I headed over to my boss's place, I felt my stomach rumble. I had forgotten that said smoothie was made with mostly kale and other things that will make you shit your pants. As I entered my boss's house, I found to my surprise that it was completely empty— no furniture, no nothing. I had forgotten that he had been in the process of moving to a new place and must've finally cleared out the house. Immediately, I wondered if there was any TP left. I ran to the bathroom and saw an empty TP holder, but someone had conveniently left a roll of paper towels next to the toilet. Bingo. I sat down, did my business, and went about my morning Twitter scroll.

As I went to flush, I heard the empty clank of the handle hitting inside the tank. "The toilet is broken," I thought. Then something else occurred to me. Something way, way worse than a broken toilet. I turned on the faucet, which shot out a couple puffs of dry air: The water had been shut off. This toilet cannot flush.

In a panic, I cleaned up quickly with the paper towels and realized what was happening. At first, I decided to leave it there and just vow to never say anything ever again. But what if my boss swung by the house and found it? What if the new owners found it and killed the deal? Would I be that assistant who shat in his boss's house and left it there and now is that Hollywood story that no one believes except its true and now I'm a "certified personal trainer" like every other dumbass in L.A.? Facing insurmountable anxiety, I decided what needed to happen: I was going to have to extract this turd from the water.

I ran out to my car and popped the trunk, hoping to find a plastic bag. If you don't know this about assistants, our cars are full of useless shit that we've collected from our offices and our boss, and it just stays in our cars until we sell it or drive into a lake. I didn't have a plastic bag, but I took the following items: a cardboard box, a roll of plastic cling-wrap (the kind you wrap furniture in when you move), and a golf glove.

I ran back inside and decided that I was going to have to line the box with plastic wrap and then drop the turd inside. At this point, the water was not tainted. It's just a humble, coiled normal turd sitting just below the crystal clear surface. It looked solid enough for me to scoop out.

So, I opened the glove and quickly realized it was a lefty (I'm a righty), because it was a golf glove. I can't even unlock my apartment with my left hand. It presented a challenge, but I thought if I could just get under the turd and scoop it, then I would be okay. I took a deep breath, sunk my hand under the surface, cupped the turd, and slowly raised it out of the water like one of those baskets the Coast Guard uses to rescue people from the ocean.

Then, to my absolute horror, the turd started to slip from my hand. I extracted as much of it as I could, but realized I now had a bowl full of tainted, muddy water. This was somehow worse than leaving a turd inside. At least with the turd I could've hoped it would sink to the back of the bowl out of sight, but there is no way in hell I can leave a bowl full of chowder in the toilet. I was going to have to swap that water out in a house that has no running water.

I went back out to my car hoping to find a big Starbucks cup when I realized I had a case of water that I never brought into the office because I didn't feel like it. I brought the water inside and devised a plan to fill the tank with bottled water and try and get one flush. After a lengthy Google search to see if this would even work, I dumped about 12 bottles of water in the tank just to the fill line and closed my eyes. I hit the handle with and prayed. The tank emptied with a very uneventful, weak flush. I put the lid back on and popped the toilet seat to find clear, fresh water. The perfect crime.

The only problem was, I had a box on the floor lined with plastic sitting next to me that had my own turd sitting in it. In fear that it would leak, I decided to close the flaps of the box and wrap the entire thing in the plastic wrap to seal it. Once I was done, it looked like a hazmat team had come in and sterilized the box with four inches of plastic wrap.

What transpired next isn't very eventful, but driving your own shit in a box is about as close as I'll ever get to that scene at the end of Goodfellas where a coked-out Ray Liotta is looking out the window paranoid that he's being followed by a helicopter. Anyways, I ended up throwing it in a dumpster behind a grocery store. The worst part? The box was marked CAUTION: LIQUID. I hope to God some poor soul does not go dumpster-diving and open that box.


Drew Magary writes for Deadspin. He's also a correspondent for GQ. Follow him on Twitter @drewmagary and email him at You can also order Drew's book, Someone Could Get Hurt, through his homepage.

Image by Sam Woolley.

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