The Super Bowl 50 MVP is up on the podium, and instead of thanking God, his family, and his teammates, he spends a good minute ripping Roger Goodell and his policies, right in front of the Commish on national TV. How long is he getting suspended?
He’s not. Goodell will stand there like a pud and take it, and then whatever defenders he has left will be like, “Goodell handled the situation with CLASS. The same can’t be said for Gronk pulling his dick out onstage!” There will always be a small number of strange people who will cry out, “It’s not the right time to call Roger Goodell a lying shitbag!” even if there’s never a wrong time for such a thing.
We’re getting very close to this situation becoming a reality, because New England is clearly the best team in the NFL. The threat is growing. I can feel it coming. I bet Tom Brady is already mentally rehearsing his shade-throwing for when he wins a fifth title. Will he play it cool? Will he let Gronk do his dirty work for him? Will he encourage Mr. Kraft to sodomize Goodell before a live television audience? I guarantee you that Goodell has a secret subcommittee in place right now whose sole focus is to not eat pizza and prepare for a Patriots vengeance celebration. He may not even hand the trophy off that night. He may just let Jim Nantz do it.
I am personally torn here, because as much as I hate Goodell, I don’t know if I can handle the incoming Smugpoclaypse. It would be unprecedented in sports history in its size and scope. Just four million Tommys from Quinzee walking around with T-shirts blaring UNDISPUTED for the next eight decades. I don’t think it’s worth humiliating Goodell for that, especially since a) everyone already hates Goodell anyway, and b) Goodell is terminally incapable of shame. Whatever satisfying comeuppance you can imagine for the guy—face-mushing, ball-gagging, etc.—won’t happen. For Pats fans it would be exultant, and for the rest of us, it would just be awkward and insufferable.
It’s like the Colts game from Sunday night. The Colts are a bunch of sniveling used-car salesmen, and they botched that game in the dumbest, most humiliating fashion possible. And yet, it wasn’t exactly satisfying for the Patriots to get “revenge” on them for Ballghazi. If the end result of any sporting contest is Simmons walking around being like I AM FACKIN’ VALIDATED, it’s a bad sports thing.
What do you do with your arms and hands when you’re at a rock concert? You can’t keep them up in the air with the devil-horn fingers forever. Just hanging them at your sides feels awkward. Sticking them in your pockets seem lame. I’ve been taking to tapping them against my thighs to the drum beat so that casual observers will think, “Ooh, wow, look at that—he must be a drummer.”
You hold a beer! One hand on your beer, THE OTHER ON YOUR WOMAN. Then you sorta bop around a bit like an idiot, and then you scan around to make sure no other guys are trying to steal your ladyfriend. You’ll pull a switchblade on them, you will!
I go to a lot of concerts alone, because I am a sad person. And when I go, I’m usually holding a beer and pumping my other fist, in order to properly unleash the ROCK. But once the beer is finished and they start playing “Free Bird,” I’m pogo-ing around and raising my fists in the air and all that, until a song I don’t know comes on, and I take a moment to rest. Then my hands go right into my pockets.
In general, you’re better off not noticing your hands at all. The second you’re aware of them, every position will feel awkward. I remember seeing an interview with Martin Scorsese once about doing cameos in his own movies, and he talked about how, with the camera on him, he would forget how to walk. He’d be so conscious of his movement that he’d completely abandon his natural walking motion and look like a moron.
That happens all the time to people. I was in a school play once, and I was horrible. And one of the reasons I was bad, apart from my general appearance and lack of talent, was that I had no clue what to do with my body. If another character was reciting dialogue, I would simply stare at them and wait for MY dialogue, because I didn’t know how to act naturally otherwise. Frankly, I’m better off not moving, ever. I should just be dead.
Who do you believe the most photographed person in history is? Since auto-focus cameras have only been around since the ’60s or so (where you simply point and shoot), I would think it’s Paul McCartney. President Obama could be on a pace to catch him, but McCartney has like a 45-year head start and is still being photographed 100,000 times nightly thanks to camera phones. Maybe some other world-renown entertainer?
You are currently living in the Juiced Photo Era, so I guarantee you that Sir Paul has probably already been overtaken by the Cool Pope or Obama or even Taylor Swift. Back in the day, camera film cost lots of money, so you had to really plan your shots. If we ever got a lousy shot from the Fotomat, my dad would audibly groan at the three cents he wasted on it.
But now, a photo only costs you a minuscule amount of data storage, AND phones come with that rapid-fire shutter that can take 90 stills within a second, even if you don’t want that (I do not). I bet Muhammad Ali has been photographed more times in the past year than he was in the first 50 years of his existence. So whoever holds the record now is unlikely to keep it going into the future as we developed contact-lens cameras and cyborg optics.
My guess is that Beyoncé currently holds the record, because of pap photos, fan photos, photo spreads, modeling gigs, and years and years of being a famous person. She literally has cameras filming her all day long for her personal archives, and has been doing this for the past DECADE. One of the Jenners will beat her eventually, but it’s gonna take some work.
At least once a week, I stop on my way home from work to get takeout for the family when my wife and I are too lazy to cook. Some of the places we order takeout from also have a selection of delicious cookies. Instead of spending a ton of money on cookies for the whole family, I usually just order one for me and eat it on the way home without telling anybody. My wife caught me doing this one night when she saw the receipt. She says it’s a dick move. I say it’s fair payment for bringing the food home so we don’t have to cook or clean up. Who’s right here?
That’s on you for leaving evidence in the takeout bag. You gotta burn it. BURN IT! Nothing will get past your significant other if you don’t. She’s just BUTTHURT that you got a cookie and she didn’t. She’s got cookie envy. MAKE YOUR OWN COOKIES, MISSY.
Anyway, that was a private indulgence meant for you and only you. I think your wife violated your privacy by digging through the receipts like a TMZ dumpster-scavenger. The Constitution should protect our God-given right to sneak in fat-boy treats when no one is looking. Sometimes, when you have a great many responsibilities and a family to care for, it’s nice to keep some things to yourself. You must celebrate the moments of your life! If you didn’t have your own little cookie moment, you’d go mad! Explain to your wife that this was all part of the TREAT YO’ SELF pact of 2011, and that your cookie purchase is protected by international law.
Recently on a vacation to visit family, my brother and his wife let me shack up with them for a night. They have two kids who each have their own room; they put them together in one room and let me sleep in the 5-year-old boy’s bed. I can’t jerk off in my nephew’s bed right? Even if I’m careful and clean, that’s not right, is it? I was surprised when I asked some friends and co-workers—specifically ones with young kids—and they mostly responded, “Ehhhh who cares, it’s fine” as long as I didn’t give the bed a Jackson Pollock interpretation with semen. Maybe parents have seen a lot more shit than I think.
I wouldn’t do it, and I’m a sociopath. It’s just too weird and creepy, and I don’t ever want to feel like more of a creep than I already do. I say you go to the bathroom and do your business there if you have to. Better to do it with little junior’s dinosaur soap staring you in the face than have a full blowout in his train sheets. You’d never forgive yourself. Besides, that nephew will become a teenage boy one day and pay you back IN FULL when he stays on your couch. You’ll have to get that couch steam-cleaned.
What’s the best gas-station food? Those breakfast sandwich Sizzli’s at Wawa are preeeeeetty great. I long for the day they’ll be two-for-$3 again.
This is hard to answer, because they are places like Wawa (which has sandwiches made to order) and Royal Farms (which has fresh fried chicken), and those places go above and beyond the normal purview of what constitutes “gas-station” food. If I’m out on some godforsaken interstate and stop at the Sonoco GooberMart, my options are limited to traditional convenience-store garbage: beef jerky, chips, candy, and yogurt-lacquered granola bars. The reason I like stopping at places like this is because I have no choice but to buy the bag of Cheetos. I can justify the purchase when all the surrounding options are equally monstrous. Those Cheetos count as legitimate sustenance after all that hard driving.
If I had to rank basic convenience-store food, I would put chips at the top, followed by spicy peanuts, followed by Slim Jims, followed by candy, followed by day-old 7-Eleven taquitos, followed by protein bars. Those taquitos look ready to kill you. My kid got a hot dog at 7-Eleven once, and to this day, it remains my greatest parenting mistake. I know it will come back to destroy her one day.
By the way, many rest stops and quick-marts nowadays are getting remodeled and stocked with Sahale Snacks and Cracker Jacks and all kinds of remarkably expensive snack food brought to you by BIG ORGANIC. It’s like airport prices now. Don’t get hoodwinked by an $8 bag of rainforest crunch. It’s not better for you than a bag of Doritos.
Yesterday, after making myself an omelette for breakfast, I realized all of the plates and bowls in my apartment were in the dishwasher, which was running. So, I was forced to eat it out of a tupperware container. When I took the tupperware container out of the cabinet, I grabbed the lid, too, even though I didn’t need it. Then, this morning, I put both items (container AND lid) into the now-empty dishwasher. It felt weird putting a lid that was clean into the dishwasher, but I knew that was the only chance I had at keeping the lid with the container, because we all know it is fucking impossible to keep track of Tupperware containers and their lids. Did I make the right move?
No. You’ll lose the lid anyway. It might even slip through the dishwasher rack and melt on the coils below. (I had this happen with a spatula once, and it’s the worst thing that has ever happened to me personally: The whole house smelled like nuclear fallout for eight days.) Even if it comes out clean, it’ll get lost eventually. YOU CAN’T STOP WHAT’S COMING. I like to skip washing Tupperware lids, because I am lazy. The condensation on the underside of it keeps it clean anyway! Never wash Tupperware if you don’t have to. Store all the lids in one place and all the containers in another, and then match them as necessary. One of my favorite hobbies is trying to force a soup lid onto a salsa container. FOR ME THE ACTION IS THE JUICE.
Which would you rather see in your lifetime: first contact with aliens or a few humans getting superpowers?
Am I one of the people who gets superpowers? No? Then fuck that. I’ll take aliens. Why would I want to live in a world where other people can fly, but I can’t? I’m already bitter that I can’t dunk. If mutants became a reality, I’d join with Senator Kelly in tracking the mutants down and keeping them in check. My butthurtness would consume me entirely.
As for the alien thing, you may know that scientists found possible signs of “alien megastructures” out in space last week. I stand with my colleague Tom Ley is saying that all I want is for First Contact to happen before I die. If I get hit by a bus next week, and aliens send us a fruit basket from their superstation a month later, I will be LIVID. I will come back as a banshee and scream at all of you.
And I say all this knowing that, should we ever stumble upon an advanced alien civilization, it would likely prove disastrous. Either they’d destroy us or we’d foolishly destroy them. I saw District 9, people. I know the scoop. And yet, I don’t really care. Aliens could come and nuke us with their death beams, and my final thought would be, “Damn, I was HERE for the alien invasion. Suck it, Lincoln!” And then I’d be vaporized with a smile on my face. Can’t beat that. All I want is to be there when something monumental happens to mankind. It’s all I ask. ALIENS! COME KILL US AND GIVE MY LIFE MEANING!
(By the way, if we ever find out there are aliens in those superstructures, it’s possible that we’ll never be able to physically meet them and will spend the rest of eternity communicating back and forth across light years. Basically, we would be catfishing one another. And the worst part is that all our terminology would be dated by the time it reached the Ziggbyans. We would send them an eggplant emoji, and it would take 30 years to reach them, and by then they’d be like, OMG YOU STILL USE EMOJI THAT’S SO BEAT.)
Which day of the week has historically had the worst poops? In my humble opinion, it has to be Monday. After eating an entire carton of ice cream by yourself Sunday night, you go into work Monday morning, pour yourself a cup of coffee, and drop the biggest bomb of the week. My girlfriend thinks it’s Saturday after a night of drinking, but after eating pizza and ice cream all day, I’m certain it’s Monday.
You’re both wrong! It’s either Sunday or Friday, because Thursday and Saturday are the two biggest drinking days of the week. On Thursday, you’re jazzed for the weekend, so you go out partying, only you party TOO hard and end up face-down in a toilet at 4 a.m., and then you spend Friday at the office shitting out late-night pizza and praying for a quick death. Then you’re fully recovered by Saturday, and you do it all over again. By the time Sunday morning arrives, your belly is full of toxic refried beans and old Fireball, and you will shit until your quads give out. That’s my stand on it. Between my hangover and my NFL gameday snack habits, my Sunday bowel movements smell like a furnace explosion at a vinegar plant.
Would you rather get a handjob from your mom or give a handjob to your dad?
God dammit. That is awful. Why would you ask that? I want to die. I’ll take Dad. We could just watch Fight Club during it or something.
One day, I ran out of bread and decided to put some sliced turkey in a couple of corn tortillas. I’ve been bringing it for lunch ever since. It’s tasty and healthy and cheap and easy. The question is ... what do you call them? I call them tacos, but my coworkers are adamant that tacos can’t have lunch meat, and that they’re wraps. Today, I had some leftover seasoned ground turkey in a corn tortilla, and one coworker walked by and said, “Now THAT’S a taco!” It’s the same type of meat! Turkey and turkey. There were no condiments or toppings. Does the presentation of the meat determine taco status?
Well, did you WRAP the tortilla? If you laid the turkey down and folded it once and ate it like a taco, it may qualify as a very sad taco. But if you rolled it up and cut it on a very tasteful diagonal, then that’s a wrap. Tacos are open.
Also: if the filling in your tortilla is usually shit found in another form (Caesar salad, BBQ meat, fried chicken, cold cuts, etc), it’s a wrap. An old burrito joint near here named Boloco had curry burritos and did NOT call them wraps, and that is why they are now out of business. You can’t have a chicken Caesar burrito. That’s bullshit. I’d be completely spun around if that ever happened. What if TGI Friday’s creates a special taco wrap with a taco INSIDE a wrapped tortilla? What is it then? The world is changing too quickly!
So with all of this talk in the news about the 14th Amendment, it got me thinking ... if an amendment is repealed, does someone take a Sharpie and cross it off the original copy in D.C.? If one is added, does someone just add it to the bottom in fancy cursive?
No, because the original Bill of Rights is already in such fragile condition. I’ve been to the National Archives and seen all that stuff under glass. It’s barely legible at this point. One stiff breeze and the documents would turn to lint. In order to repeal an amendment, you gotta make a NEW amendment that says the other amendment is crap. This is why we have a 21st Amendment. It killed off the 18th Amendment, which was Prohibition (YAY, 21st Amendment!). New amendments get their own separate written documentation, which is then signed and presumably attached to the old Bill of Rights with a very nice paper clip.
What if every team got a bonus point for every 10 yards away from the end zone they were when they scored? Round down to the nearest 10, so goal-line plays are still three points for a field goal and seven points for a touchdown.
It would only change the end of games, with teams down by a lot frantically throwing from the corresponding yard line. Plus, big-play teams like New England would be able to rack up insurmountable leads early and leave hapless teams like the Rams chucking Hail Marys from midfield for the rest of the game. You don’t want that. The only extra scoring system you’d ever want in the NFL would correlate to fantasy scoring, and even that novelty would wear off quickly. They’ve started using all sorts of novelty rules at the Pro Bowl now. Do I watch it? Nope. I say, “That sounds cool,” and then I avoid the Pro Bowl at all costs. The NFL needs to fix their stupid catch rules before they move onto more advanced innovations.
What do you think the all-time shooting percentage of crumpled-up paper thrown into garbage cans is? Obviously lots of factors affect this, but my anecdotal evidence suggests it’s probably around 44 percent.
I’ll put it down at 25 percent or below, because it’s more fun to attempt a long-range garbage shot than one from point-blank range. Hence, more attempts from downtown. Hence, a LOT of missed shots, followed by me giving myself a mulligan, and then trying again, and then missing, and then screaming DAMMIT! and then missing again, and then meekly banking in a layup to end the misery. I’m missing uncontested paper jumpers left and right, ruining the curve for everyone. I am sorry. I just want to leave the office on a high note.
Would you rather be the person who discovers and successfully captures the real Bigfoot alive (along with his intricate underground catacomb system that he has used to evade humans for centuries), or find an above-ground-swimming-pool-sized pot of gold at the end of a rainbow?
GOLD. What kinda money am I getting for finding Bigfoot? BIG CIRCUS would snatch him right out from under me. All I would get is a bunch of reporters at my house and PETA reps egging my car because I disturbed the ecosystem of an endangered animal. A year after the fact, I would be broke and homeless and sitting in a dive bar, cursing to myself and saying I WISH I HAD NEVER FOUND THAT SASQUATCH! And then some other guy at the bar would recognize me, and we would have unkind words. No, thank you. I’ll take the straight rainbow payout.
Also, I would rather find aliens than Bigfoot. Who gives a shit about Bigfoot? It’s a big hairy shy animal. It has no special powers. It’s not a dragon. It can’t talk like a Wookiee. It’s a bear, but uglier. Bigfoot can kiss my ass. There’s no First Contact calendar reset for finding Bigfoot. I want my gold, and I want my alien pen-pals.
Does chewing on a mint immediately get your breath smelling the same as if you were to suck on the mint for its entire duration? I’m in the “chew immediately” camp and need some confirmation that my breath doesn’t smell bad.
I think you’re wrong, because if you suck on the mint, a) the mint is obviously in your mouth longer, keeping you dragon breath at bay, and b) sucking on the mint causes you to generate more saliva, which helps clean that garbage out of your gross mouth. The mint, on its own, is a superficial breath freshener. It only gives off a refreshing minty scent so long as the menthol in it sticks around your mouth. After that, you really need to brush your teeth if you want to get to the root of the issue.
Email of the week!
I’m an Air Force brat, and at the age of 14, my family lived in an airbase. I’d often let my friends from school in the base, where we’d play soccer until dark and then have some airbase-quality junk food at the Officers’ Club.
One Friday, we were told off from going in the Officers’ Club, since there was a NATO field exercise going on, with Special Forces soldiers from different NATO countries participating. We would, however, be allowed into the NCOs mess.
The mess was about a mile away, and the five or six of us started walking across the base on the warm, moonless night. We would gingerly pass the ball around and, in general, we were in the best of spirits. At a certain point, the ball got kicked off the road and next to a nearby shrub. During the process of retrieving said ball, a friend and I went on to urinate in the shrub and kept going, without a care in the world.
We got stuffed with pizza and, on the way back, we reached the spot where we’d taken care of business earlier. The shrub was gone.
I pissed on a commando, bitches.
Laugh now. He’ll get you for that.
Drew Magary writes for Deadspin. He’s also a correspondent for GQ. Follow him on Twitter @drewmagary and email him at email@example.com. You can also order Drew’s book, Someone Could Get Hurt, through his homepage.
Photo illustration by Jim Cooke, photos via Getty.
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