Time for your weekly edition of the Deadspin Funbag. Got something on your mind? Email the Funbag. Today, we’re covering bacon, Trump, worst winners, and more.

Your letters:

BD:

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I have a friend who, if it has been more than a few days since we’ve last spoken, will text, “Hey” before we start our conversation, wait for me to respond in kind, then tell me whatever he texted me to tell me. Didn’t we all agree to drop these kind of pleasantries when we decided texting was preferable to actual conversation? Should I block him?

You’ll just have to grin and bear it. Some people are awkward with texting and email, and that’s just part of the deal. The standard opening text message structure should be, “Hey, [what you want to say here.]” You obviously don’t need the opening HEY in a separate message, but that’s one of many text messaging sins that people commit. Some others:

* Using multiple texts to say one thing. “Hey.” “I’m going to the store.” “You want anything?” Yes, I would like that all in a single serving.

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* Sending a “t.co” URL on its own. Is this a virus? Did you send me malware? How am I supposed to trust this? [Opens it.] Oh, it’s a local restaurant review. Somehow that’s even worse.

* Sending a text to a very distant acquaintance without identifying yourself. I don’t have your number in my phone. Who are you? Are you stalking my family? STATE YOUR NAME.

* Sending a photo of your poop. There is, against all odds, a line where poop stops being funny. This is that line.

* Turning on auto-reply. Fuck you. It’s bad enough that you turned on an email auto-reply when you were out for a three-day weekend and then left it on into the next week. Now you’re doing it with text messages? Piss off.

* Overusing emoji. I’m no old fogey. I’m fine with a little bit of newfangled emoji in my life. But don’t kill that eggplant emoji. It has a shelf life, man.

* Texting people at any hour when a texting alert might wake them up. That’s partially on them for sleeping with the phone on the nightstand, but still: Texting someone at 5 a.m. is bullshit. You should know better. You must suffer through that early-morning trip to the airport ALONE. Buy a book.

Jon:

WTF happens to Trump once this whole thing is over? He can never come back to NYC, right? Wouldn’t he just be cursed at for the rest of his life?

Go back? I assume he’s in New York at this very moment, comfortably ensconced in a gold-plated sleigh bed with a comforter woven from human immigrant hair, wearing flannel jammies and reading about himself in the newspaper while his butler brings him a single banana on a Ming Dynasty-era salad plate. That guy doesn’t have a care in the fucking world.

There comes a point where, if you have enough money, you can simply buy yourself an entire lifetime shielded from criticism. Trump flies in private jets and takes private cars, rolls with a coterie of beefy guards, and presumably lives in one of his ugly, fortified glass apartment buildings. At no point, during the course of any given day, does he EVER have to rub elbows with anyone who might displease him. He might get some protestors at a rally, as he did last night. But otherwise, he lives in blissful ignorance of the rest of the world at all times. His ivory tower is portable.

It’s not unlike a hated sports owner, like Dan Snyder or Donald Sterling—men who are so reviled you would think that, on human level, all the anger and hatred would bother them. But it doesn’t, because it never really touches them. They’re in a private room somewhere, dining on lobster and fresh baby stem cells. The rest of the world isn’t real and isn’t relevant.

So when Donald Trump is finished running for president (assuming he doesn’t win, which I’m not ready to acknowledge as a given), he can pretty much go back to his life just as it was before: the shady real estate deals, the golf courses, the private steakhouse blowjobs … all the standard rich-asshole crap. If he loses, there will be no residual sting, because he can spin it into a victory, and then the sycophants around him will just nakedly agree. You can buy your own reality. You don’t have to give a fuck what the world thinks of you when you never really have to live in it.

Mark:

How long do you think it would take to teach George Washington (if he were somehow brought back to life) how to use the basic functions of a computer? Keep in mind that this man never even used a clicky pen. But I feel like he would pick up on things quickly.

I don’t think the problem would be teaching him so much as the matter of him WANTING to learn. How many old people do you know out there who are voluntary, performative technophobes? There are MILLIONS of them. All of them have the ability to use email and send proper text messages and get a streaming Netflix account, but do they? NOOOOOOOO. No, because they’re scared of trying something new, and because they’re afraid of losing their old-man street cred. I LIKE MY RABBIT EARS JUST FINE AND JETHRO AGREES WITH ME.

So if George Washington time-traveled to today, you would have to convince him to learn to use your laptop, and that’s not a given. Apart from the obvious and very serious case of culture shock the old man would suffer, he would probably wave off 21st-century creature comforts in favor of oil lamps and ink-dipped writing quills, so that he could feel somewhat grounded in this strange new futuristic universe. Also, you’re gonna have to pull him aside privately and really hammer home the NO SLAVES thing to him. He may grouse about that.

Paul:

What percentage of daily fantasy sports lineups are set while taking a shit? I’d say at least 15 percent. About half of mine are.

It’s really the ideal shitter activity. You’re sitting there, staring at your phone. Twitter hasn’t refreshed. No new emails have come in. What then, I ask you? LINEUPS. That’s an easy two minutes to burn. I can set up a DFS challenge, draft a team, and edit the lineup all before I have to go for the wipe. DraftKings is making millions by exploiting the Great American Poop Break! They’re evil geniuses.

Alex:

We all know the best college football team in the land couldn’t come close to beating the Browns (or any other bad NFL team), but how do you think an elite high school team would do against a low-level D3 team? Like a HS that churns out D1 4- or 5-star recruits yearly vs. a SUNY Liberal Arts type of place.

At first I thought they would lose, because it struck me as the same problem as a college team playing an NFL team, where a college team will always, invariably, have a number of players who are NOT pro caliber. That’s a fatal flaw when you’re playing against a team where EVERY player is pro-caliber. I played Division III football, and a lot of the players on that team (not me) were very big and very strong. They were actively recruited, and though this is at the very bottom of the college football ladder, it’s still one level up from high school because all the 120-pound overachievers have been weeded out. MEN VERSUS BOYS, GANG. Or, at least, older boys against somewhat younger boys.

But then, for reference, I looked at the roster of Kenyon College and then compared it to the roster of Centennial (CA) high school, which is one of the biggest football schools on the planet. Centennial has 14 dudes on their roster weighing in at over 250 pounds. Kenyon only has nine. In low-level college ball, as in high school, you can usually wipe the floor with another team if you have a couple of superstar players. So with that in mind, I’m gonna side with my colleague Tim Burke and say Centennial would fucking bury those book-sniffing commie losers.

Jonathan:

Among the ones that have enough teams to do this, which city would you most despise seeing sweep all Big 4 sporting titles in the same year? (So the Super Bowl, NBA Championship, World Series, and Stanley Cup.) Is there any city that could do this and not become unbearably self-righteous in the process?

Besides Boston? Because Boston is obviously the No. 1 candidate. In fact, let’s just go ahead now and rank the most insufferable cities in America when their sports team wins, especially if they win titles in multiple sports. This list will be completely and utterly predictable:

1. Boston.

2. New York. You already know that New Yorkers treat the rest of the world as if it doesn’t exist, and that extends into sports fandom as well. A Yankees victory parade is just a chance for New York to look down its nose at all the little teams of the baseball world. Look at all those sad, pathetic little towns, without a financial district to call their own. THEY THINK THEY’RE REAL CITIES BUT THEY ARE NOT!

3. St Louis. Again, obvious. Like many other Midwestern cities (including Minneapolis, where I grew up), a sports-team title is treated like some kind of spontaneous community hoedown. Soccer moms come out of their crypts carrying wing platters and crying out. OH THE CARDS ARE IN THE PLAYOFFS YA KNOW! PRETTY EXCITIN’!

4. Washington. Trust me, it’s for the best that teams around here always end up choking on their own vomit. One of the reasons the federal government does nothing in this town is because they’re too busy rehashing the Five Best PATs From The 1991 Redskins Season. It’s awful.

5. Detroit. Nothing worse than a fan base that treats any championship like some kind of karmic reward for staying loyal to some tire fire of a city.

6. Chicago. Like Detroit, Chicago treats any title like some kind of validation of its toughness. DURRRR WE WON BECAUSE WE BRAVED THE BEAR WEATHER DURRRR, they will tell you from inside a heated gastropub.

7. Toronto. It’s always terrible when a Canadian city and team both act as if I’m supposed to pay attention to them. That awesome Jose Bautista bat flip? It would have 75 percent better on American soil. That is a FACT.

8. New Orleans. GUMBO GUMBO GUMBO AIN’T NOBODY KNOW HOW TO CELEBRATE A TITLE LIKE WE KNOW HOW TO CELEBRATE A TITLE. Oh, you get drunk and eat good food? Wow, that’s a fucking novel concept. Good thing no other city does that.

9. Phoenix/Atlanta/Dallas/Miami. These are the fair-weather cities that will try to convince you they’ve been fans for a long time and deserve a title when really they could give half a shit. Arizona is where championship fever burns to death and then gets shot. Where do you even throw a title parade in Phoenix? In a Target parking lot? That town blows.

Garrison:

What purpose do bay windows serve, save for, “Hey, poor neighbor to the east, look at how obnoxiously rich I am! I am so rich that you can see the inside of my house from this enormously sized, jutting-out-of-the-side-of-the-house window!”? I’d say that’s about it, and I don’t think you can prove me wrong.

But … but the view! You get a PANORAMIC view! Such sweeping vistas! And there’s a ledge for a doggie bed! Can’t beat that. By the way, if a bay window breaks, it costs 50 times what you would pay to fix a normal, boring window. JOKE IS ON YOU, RICH GUY WITH ENOUGH MONEY TO PAY FOR SUCH MARKUPS!

HALFTIME!

[NOTE: I like that song, but YouTube comments on the video killed me: “Yes!! This song was so appropriate for the ending moments of episode 8 in season 4 of Suits. So haunting and expressive. ”)

Kevin:

My wife and I are hosting another couple at the house; the setting is very casual, with low-key Friday-night cocktails and apps. My question is this: What is the appropriate footwear for the host on such an occasion? I mean, if I were home with my wife on a Friday night alone, I would be rocking the slippers. However, if I was invited to someone’s home in a similar situation, I would be wearing shoes. Since I am in my own house, though, I find it hard to strap a pair of actual shoes on just to go sit on my couch and hang out in my living room ... is it appropriate for my guests to show up, and here I am rocking the slipper look?

Is your house a NO SHOES house? Because you can pull a Bert Cooper and ask visitors to remove their footwear if you’re big on keeping the floor clean. By spousal mandate, I live in a no-shoes house. In fact, I’m so domesticated that, any time I walk into a strange house, I ask if it’s a no-shoe house.

Therefore, if you are the acting host, you are allowed to wear whatever goddamn shoes you want, if you wear shoes at all. Wear bear claw slippers if you want. YOU ARE THE KING. Until your wife sees your choice and then gives you The Look, and then you trudge upstairs to find something more appropriate for the occasion. My wife never lets me go to cocktail parties in my Vikings T-shirt. BLOODY FASCISM IS WHAT IT IS.

Sarah:

My roommate sleeps with his door open. This guy is the worst, right?

Why would anyone do that? Doesn’t he want privacy? And darkness? Is he subtly trying to get everyone to hear him masturbating? I don’t trust this man. Break your lease. We have doors for a reason.

Ed:

Today was a co-worker’s birthday. I’m the guy in the office who maintains the job of ordering food when we do birthday lunches. I think this job sucks, because nobody wants to make a decision about what they want to eat, but I know that whatever I choose, people will shit on me for ordering something they don’t like. On the other hand, I can easily take 60 minutes from my work day ordering the food and picking it up. Does this job suck, or is it awesome?

It sucks. You have been hoodwinked. I would rather do 60 minutes of actual work than 60 minutes of event planning, which is the worst job on Earth. You could have easily found another way to waste 60 minutes of productivity. Go take four 15-minute shits. Step out for coffee. Set up an imaginary dentist appointment and then go beat off. By assuming the duties of lunchboy, you’ve conned yourself into an even worse plight. The cure is worse than the disease! Also, once people know that you’re a sucker for menial tasks, they’ll heap more of that shit on you. You need to act as if all of that is BENEATH you. Turn up your nose at helping anyone. Only deign to work on big projects. Throw a huff if someone asks you to make a fax. You’ll be CEO in no time!

Mark:

When and where the hell do you put dressing on salads? Please help. I’m eating a cheeseburger as I type this.

I read an article once that said you drizzle the dressing along the outside of the salad bowl, and then toss the salad accordingly (tee hee hee tossed salad). But if it’s a takeout salad, I dump all the dressing right on top, close the lid, and then shake it like I’m in a drum line. I get far too excited by the prospect of shaking up a takeout salad. I shake it VIOLENTLY, as if the salad has angered me in some way. It’s a really cathartic way to get balsamic vinaigrette coating every piece of shredded red cabbage.

By the way, I am terminally unable to fetch a large enough salad bowl to prevent tossing spillage. Within half a second of tossing that fucker, there are 12 raisins and a hunk of goat cheese on the floor. It’s debilitating. Salad should stop being so needy.

Pat:

Would you still want be able to teleport if there were Terminator rules and you couldn’t take anything with you? That really removes the practicality of it (your commute to/from work, etc.) Plus anywhere you when you would be bear-ass naked.

Oh, I’d still teleport. It would just require extensive planning. I would teleport to private locations (like an apartment) and have clothing, a credit card, and a second cell phone ready in that spot. I could set up HOT SPOTS at my parents’ house (they’ve seen me naked before), and at my friend’s apartment in New York (ditto), and maybe even a nude beach in France. I could hide my clothing and valuables in the sand and mark the coordinates! I see no possible way it could go wrong.

If you think that’s a burden, consider the burdens you already place upon yourself when traveling. You must carry luggage, and park your car, and go through security, and check your bags, and wait through pre-boarding. Sometimes you even remove clothing! Taken together, all of that is FAR more taxing than teleporting in the nude and making sure you’ve got underwear handy in that spot.

Also, if EVERYONE could teleport nude, we’d all be far more forgiving of the nudity. We’re saving the planet with our exposed balls! It’s worth it.

Ed:

On a day cold enough to see your breath, can you go bare-ass and see your fart?

You can see your breath on a cold day because of the water vapor in your breath that crystallizes in the freezing air. There’s not as much water vapor in a fart, so it’s unlikely that your farts would be visible. I checked around, and there are a few cold-air-fart videos on YouTube, but I cannot vouch for their authenticity. All I know is that I have lived in cold-weather cities my entire life and have never seen any visible fart- breath.

Aaron:

My girlfriend made bacon this morning and offered me nary a slice. Because this bacon was for her breakfast, am I being an entitled ass by expecting some bacon, or should it be punishable by death to cook bacon and not allow it to be eaten? Last week I made breakfast for dinner and left her a few slices of the bacon goodness, because I’m not an animal.

Yeah, she should have left a slice for you. That’s just common courtesy. I make bacon every weekend for my family and always leave a slice out for my wife. Then she comes down the stairs, and I ask over and over if she’s gonna eat the slice until she’s like, “Just fucking eat it. I’m barely awake.” And then I eat it, because I would hate to see that bacon go to waste. I think it’s the right thing to do.

In general, you can never make enough bacon. If you have eight slices out, no one is gonna be like, “But I can’t possibly that entire .003 net pounds of cooked bacon!” It’s made for mass consumption, and mass sharing. So don’t go frying up two slices strictly for your BLT and expect the rest of the house to just blindly accept it.

John:

Who do you think holds the current record for most girls kissed, and what’s their number?

It’s me! I’ve kissed, like, 10 girls! PRETTY STRONG EFFORT.

Anyway, this is a little bit hard to gauge, because once you reach your late twenties or whatever, you’re probably gonna have full-blown sex with someone if you kiss them. It’s not like Wilt Chamberlain would kiss ladies on the nightclub floor and then say, “Well that was fun, but let’s stop there for tonight!” Chances are, whoever has had the most sex throughout history (Chamberlain, Peter North, Ted Kennedy, etc.) has also kissed the most girls— maybe tens of thousands of them or more. That’s the boring answer, unless there was some junior high supernova out there who was able to mack on his fellow 7th graders like no one before or since. Little Julian Weathers was quite the Romeo at Eastlake Middle School!

Brett:

Is there an acceptable brand/type of spaghetti sauce that can be found at your average grocery store? I have found that there is definitely not a correlation between price and taste.

I swear by Victoria marinara sauce (NOTE: I am not a paid Victoria marinara sauce spokespenis), and I stock up if it happens to be on sale at the supermarket. You can also buy the Rao’s brand (it tastes like Sinatra personally killing a guy!), but that shit gets pricey. In general, just look at the ingredient label for quality. All a good sauce needs is tomatoes, oil, garlic, salt, and maybe some basil. If you pick up some Prego or whatever, you’ll find corn syrup and koala bear oil in it. MY-A MOMMA WOULD-A TURN OVER IN HER GRAVE IF-A SHE SEE THAT! AY YAY YAY! GABBAGOOL!

By the way, making your own tomato sauce is a bit more annoying than using shit from a jar, but it’s usually worth it because you can picture yourself in the Goodfellas prison scene or the Clemenza cooking lesson in The Godfather. TELL THAT GIRL YOU LOVE HER WITH ALL YOUR HEART! You can also yell at people to call the sauce “Gravy” if you want to be a spectacular asshole.

Scott:

Has a Major League Baseball team ever batted around three times in a half-inning, with the same player making all three outs? With as many games that have been played in the history of baseball, surely the Mets have let this happen to them at least once or twice, right?

That has never happened. The record for most at-bats by one team in a half-inning is 23 (set by the Red Sox), which falls short of three full runs through the order. I don’t know that you’ll ever see it happen, much less with one guy making all three outs (which could conceivably happen with a minimum of 19 at-bats in that half-inning). Not only is it a bitch to score that many runs in an inning, but I think an unofficial mercy rule kicks in after your standard baseball team has racked up 10 or more runs in a single half inning. Like, at a certain point, it’s enough runs. Eventually, you want the half-inning to end so that you can go home and get plowed. I’m not saying that teams cut run binges short on purpose. But it’s only human to have your motivation wane a bit. A football team that’s up 45-0 won’t play quite as urgently as one that’s tied 10-10. You can’t help it.

Lloyd:

Which represents the crappier body of work: video games based on movies, or movies based on video games?

Movies based on video games. Not even close. I had a Batman Game Boy game ages ago that remains, on its own, far superior to the entirety of the video-game-movie canon. I Googled a list of best video-game movies, and someone put Prince of Persia at No. 1. That’s how bad it is. Never watch any movie based on a video game. Only pro athletes like them.

Email of the week!

Brendan:

Last night my four girls were playing in the bathtub (8, 5, 3, 1). It’s a large tub. Everything was going well until the 3-year-old self reported a floater. The tub was evacuated, and everyone jumped into the shower while I drained the tub and fished out the poop. What would you do with the bathtub toys?

Eh, rinse ’em off. It’s a rubber duck. The poop just sloughs right off. If anything, it’s the INSIDE of the duckie that ought to terrify you. Sometimes, I can see the black mildew fastened to the duck’s inner cavity if I hold the toy up to the light. It’s not a pleasant discovery.


Lead image by Jim Cooke.

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 order Drew’s book, Someone Could Get Hurt, through his homepage.