Time for your weekly edition of the Deadspin Funbag. Got something on your mind? Email the Funbag. Today, we’re covering toothpaste, dog soccer, peanuts, and more.
My girlfriend and I have a disagreement (I won’t call it an argument) about whether or not a person can actually get clean by taking a bath. I’m of the opinion that by the end of the bath you’re basically stewing in dirty water, and that the crucial difference is that you rinse off in a shower. Washing machines have rinse cycles for this same reason. Can one get genuinely clean taking a bath without rinsing?
I think you can. The only way to clean off a small child is to use a bath (showers terrify them, much in the same way a solar eclipse might terrify a caveman… MY GOD THERE IS WATER FALLING FROM THE CEILING!), and a regular nighttime bath is effective in keeping poop out of their armpits. I say that even though I have lived through a child taking a shit IN the tub, which means you have to drain the tub, sterilize it, and then fill the tub AGAIN and pray they haven’t acquired a fondness for shitting in the tub.
But that’s a kid. You give small kids a bath because they aren’t ready for showers yet. No full-grown adult should opt for taking a bath over a shower when it comes to personal hygiene. I’m sure you can get relatively clean in a bath if you stand up in it and soap up and then use a bucket to rinse off the lather, like Howard Hughes’ mom sponging off her kid in The Aviator. But that isn’t how adults take baths. An adult treats a bath like a one-person hot tub. There are candles, and ambient rainfall sounds coming from a portable stereo, and scented bath salts, and even a towel to rest your head on (seems like a waste of a dry towel). And then you masturbate. And then nihilists break into your home and attack you with a marmot:
That kind of bath is a therapeutic endeavor. It’s not a cleansing exercise. If you take a bath like this, you should be required to take a shower after that bath, so that you don’t walk out of there covered in your own cum foam.
A hot tub is one thing. We all agree hot tubs are repugnant germ swamps reserved for drunken boning. There’s no illusion of cleanliness there. Totally different tub usage. I’ve never met a guy my age who has been like, “Ugh, what a long day. TIME FOR A NICE HOT BATH.” Only Russian hit-men require the services of a bathhouse. It’s not even comfortable in a bath, towel pillow or not. I’m lying down in a short white coffin. This does not relax me. Whisky solves the problem just fine. Frankly, if you need a thirty-minute daily stew in your own juices to decompress from the rigors of living, you are a basket case. I bet you invite your cat into the bath with you.
(By the way, I had a bathroom remodeled recently. You know how much a fucking bath costs? We’re talking $10,000 and up. No fucking way I was paying for that. Shower only, kids. You gotta REALLY like smoking weed in a bath to pony up that much goddamn money.)
Could the USWNT beat the worst MLS team if the MLS team had to play barefoot?
No. The men could still outmaneuver the women and beat them handily. It would really fucking hurt, though. I played soccer barefoot with my kids yesterday and a stray twig really ruined my shit. So I’d crap my pants if I had to play barefoot against shoed competition. Just thinking about getting a cleat to my toes makes me wanna take a soak. God, that would be awful.
On a hardly-related note, I have kids who like to move chairs. This is standard kid shit. If they wanna help make cookies or something, they grab a chair to stand on and drag it over to the counter, gouging the floor in the process. These children have NO awareness of foot placement when it comes to putting a chair down. I live in constant danger of having a chair planted directly on top of my foot. So far, I’ve managed to avoid getting impaled, but I know I won’t be able to keep it up. One day, their aim will be true and my foot will die. I’m not looking forward to it.
Hypothetically speaking, if you had a chainsaw, how many trees do you think you could cut down in the average Midwestern upper-middle class subdivision before the cops arrived? I think I could cut down ten trees, at the very least.
No way. I don’t know about you, but my tree-cutting resume is shamefully slight. Give me a chainsaw and I would almost certainly get it stuck IN the tree before managing to fell it. I would take ten years to start the thing, then dig it into the trunk, and then get watch in terror as it ground to a halt, and then reach for the blade with my hand and have the saw magically spring back to life, chopping all my fingers off. That’s what would happen. I stuck my hand in a lawnmower once when the motor died. I deserve to have terrible accidents happen to me.
Cutting down trees is arduous, dangerous work. There’s a reason that war-profiteering tree crews cruise around after a thunderstorm, demanding $1,000 to remove some damaged poplar in your backyard. No way a standard pud like you or me could pull a Dan Snyder before getting tossed into Poundtown. I’d be lucky to get a single tree down before getting caught.
(NOTE: From watching ESPN outdoor games, I do know that you’re supposed to cut a triangle in the trunk to make the tree come down. If I ever managed to make such a cut, the chances of the tree falling directly on me are exactly 95%.)
What happens to @potus and @flotus after the next election? Do the Obamas have to turn them over to the winning couple or do they keep them for life?
No, they have to turn them over to the next President, which means that we could bear witness to the merger of the @potus account and the @realDonaldTrump account, which is all I ever wanted. We’d have the @potus account talking real trash to Putin and getting us all killed in the process.
Everything about the Presidency is fleeting. You don’t get to keep the house, or the power, or the plane, or the Twitter account. Once you’re out of office, you’re just another shitbag. In fact, we should make laws that economically cripple ANY former President. No pension. No coterie of Secret Service agents. You have to work at a Perkins, and you have to live in a one-bedroom shithole apartment like a schlub. I don’t want you taking your time in office for granted.
How true to real life do you think the scene with Captain Smith locking himself in the wheelhouse and going down with the ship in the movie Titanic? Do you think that fucker actually let himself die a horrible (and TERRIFYING) death on the Bridge that night or do you think he was at the bow of the ship as it plunged one last time into the depths of the icy Atlantic?
According to Wikipedia, there are multiple conflicting accounts of Edward Smith’s demise. Some witnesses said he went down with the ship. Others said he shot himself (kinda the same thing, spiritually). And other said he jumped from the boat like a GLORY BOY COWARD. There’s a book out now called Dead Wake about the sinking of the Lusitania (I wouldn’t recommend it as highly as Erik Larson’s most famous book, Devil & The White City), and the captain of THAT boat did indeed go down with his ship, only to inadvertently survive. That’s kind of an ideal way for it go. “Look man, I TRIED to get pulled down in the boat’s great sucking vortex, but shit happens.” I’d still want my bravery points.
After the sinking, Captain William Turner was roundly blamed by the UK government for the disaster (which is incredible, given that the ship was sunk by, you know, a German torpedo) and was racked with guilt over surviving when so many of his passengers died horrible deaths. In other words, if you are the captain of a ship and it sinks, you can either A) Die, or B) Live long enough to have everyone blame you and call you a coward. Never captain a boat.
If you went in to pitch in the bottom of the 9th of an MLB game with a 10-run lead would you blow it?
Yes. You just saw the Home Run Derby, right? Those people don’t fuck up meatballs very often. Kind of incredible, really. I’d like to be the sort of person who can ROUTINELY hit a baseball 400 feet if the pitcher has the courtesy to throw a ball at me at a mere 40mph. “Oh, that? I can hit a home run with that.” So unfair.
How long do you think a world class soccer player, like Messi or Ronaldo, could keep a soccer ball from my dog? My dog is a 52lb, muscular (but not a bulging), female, American Pit Bull Terrier (the Blue Nose are the breed you always see in a stock image the media use to bring up pit bull laws). Short of them kicking her, and really kicking her (to injure her), how long before she gets the ball?
Is the dog allowed to bite? Because any sane person is giving the ball directly to the pit bull under threat of biting. Or scratching.
If we’re ruling out biting and making this an exercise in pure athleticism, I say the dog gets the ball in under sixty seconds. You have a big, powerful dog. Not a sissy dog. Dogs are fast and low to the ground. GOOD PAD LEVEL. I don’t see Messi keeping the ball away from a 50-lb. pit bull if the pit bull can muscle between his legs and fuck with the ball.
Like, even if Messi does 50 headers in a row to keep the ball in the air, he’s still gonna be psyched out by a monster dog hanging around his ankles. There’s also the fatigue factor. As our Kyle Wagner explains: “I think the pit bull just never tires because it’s made of death cells.”
Dog gets the ball.
What percentage of fortune cookies do you think are thrown away unopened? I would guess 50%. Also, is there any other packaged food item thrown away unopened more often?
What about the mustard that comes with every Chinese food order? I’ve never opened that mustard. I like mustard just fine, but I’ve never ordered some lo mein and been like, “You know what this could use? Some generic hot mustard.” I bet the mustard gets discarded more often than the fortune cookies. Kids love opening fortune cookies, reading the fortune, and then asking for a REAL dessert instead.
I don’t know if every speedway does this, but the one in Charlotte allows you to bring in food and beer. This year, my snacks were beef jerky, peanut M&M’s, Fritos, and kettle cooked chips. My question for you: what are the best, essential NASCAR snacks you would bring?
Slim Jims! I would get five hundred Slim Jims and some of those pickled sausages they sell at the convenience store that are disconcertingly thick. I don’t trust preservatives to keep a sausage that big from going bad.
And Red Bull. Ages ago, I embedded with the Red Bull NASCAR team (for an article in Penthouse that, sadly, doesn’t appear to be online anymore) (UPDATE: Found it!), and those people chugged Red Bull at an alarming rate. We’re talking three, four cans an hour. Anyway, I drank a shitload of it too. And when they fired up the cars (a NASCAR race is deafening beyond all human tolerability) and the whole speedway got engulfed in hot exhaust, I felt like my heart was gonna detonate and blow me to smithereens all over the infield. PRETTY COOL FEELING.
The goal of attending any sporting event is to eat as unhealthy as humanly possible, so that you feel pain and shame in equal measure at the end of the night. I didn’t even bother staying for the end of the race because I had to get back to the hotel and punch myself. Solid day.
(By the way, they sell Chili Cheese Fritos at the local pool snack bar, and they’re fucking unreal. I forgot how much I loved Fritos, especially flavored ones. A Frito is like a tortilla chip that is somehow even WORSE for you. If you get a bag of Frito Scoops and dip them in dip, your health insurance carrier automatically voids your policy. God, I love Fritos.)
I’m 26 years old. What are the chances a U.S. President will be assassinated during my lifetime?
Zero. I don’t mean to jinx it, but it’ll never happen. Our Secret Service is full of incompetent horndogs and it’s STILL no easy task for a would-be lunatic to take down the commander-in-chief. His movements are plotted down to the last step. Satellites survey the entirety of everything surrounding him. Snipers are everywhere. They aren’t parading the President around in an open-top convertible at 10mph anymore.
President Obama has been in office for seven years now, and has inspired more than his fair share of vitriol (much of it, obviously, racially fueled). If we can get him out of office in January 2017 unscathed, we should all get some kind of gift certificate for keeping him safe. GOOD JOB, AMERICA! I expected so much less from you! Way to go!
How terrible does a person need to be before you would no longer have sex with them? My friend and I were discussing Jenny McCarthy (just an example), who is a genuinely terrible person, but I would definitely still have sex with her. At what point is hotness overcome by sheer terribleness?
Probably murder. Like, if you feel physically threatened being around that person, you might avoid sexual contact (or perhaps that kind of danger really revs your engine). Otherwise, if you are a single man, I don’t think there’s any glaring personality flaw that would keep you from having sex with an overly attractive person, if only for a single night. “Sure, she’s an anti-vaxxer and she spray-painted Hitler on my wall with the caption OUR ONLY HOPE. But I can deal with all that TOMORROW.”
I remember I broke up with a girl once because I thought she was a lousy person (took me a year and a half to realize it), and when I did it, I was WAY too proud of myself for severing ties. I was like, “I did it! I had sex with a terrible person for 18 months but finally had the GRIT to break it off! Good for me!” I think I bought myself pancakes as a reward.
How rare is a QUAD-PEANUT? I got one in a bag at the Cubs game last night (pic below) and it got me wondering. Is it as rare as a 4-leaf clover?
Damn! Look at that peanut! And all the chambers opened cleanly, too. That’s an elite peanut. When I get a nice long peanut, sometimes one of the chambers will split open easily and the other will stay sealed shut like a bank vault.
Anyway, there’s a whole Reddit thread about long peanuts (this is where Reddit really earns its keep), and of course one Redditor brags, “I have seen a peanut with 6 nuts one time. I have had 5 nuts per shell too many times to count.” Sure, buddy. And I bet you caught a shark that was thirty feet long. Sick of these tall peanut tales. What an asshole. Probably got implants in those peanuts.
Wouldn’t it be amazing if NFL broadcasts allowed callers like your local talk show? Jerry from Arbutus could call in during challenges, between possessions, and after big plays to weigh in and give his hot takes. It will never happen, of course, but god that would be awesome.
ESPN did that! They let Paul Finebaum take calls during the Iron Bowl on a simulcast. I watched the normal broadcast of the game of course. But this sort of thing is useful for after the fact, when I want to relive the game through the voice of Tammy War Eagle.
This will happen at some point. ESPN has already dabbled in fractured broadcasts, and the NFL will eventually follow suit. You will be able to customize your broadcast feed to feature no announcers, or standard announcers, or roundtable analysis (God, shoot me now), or live call-ins. Ninety percent of us will choose the regular feed. I know I will. I can bitch all day about announcers, but when push comes to shove, I’m not kicking Buck and Aikman out of the TV room. I fear change. I need someone there to tell me that the pass was caught when I see a pass caught. Really drives it home.
Could you beat up the average famous actor? To be more specific, I’m talking about if you were thrown into the OCTAGON with any randomly chosen professional male TV and/or film personality that a majority of people would at least know by sight. My friends and I are mixed: Most say yes, and their reason seems to be that they think they’re tough shits, and because actors spent their formative years in drama class. I think that’s fair, but that to be a famous actor nowadays you’ve probably gotta be jacked—I myself am your basic 32 year old dadbodded schlub fuck—and there’s a great chance you’ve had some kinda fight training for a film or something.
Yeah, I’d get my shit ruined by the average actor. They’re all in shape. They HAVE to be in shape, or they won’t get any work. I have no such incentive to keep fit. What chance do I have against Channing Tatum? C-Tates would mop the floor with me. I don’t think I’d even get a punch in. Actors spend all day waiting in audition lines and doing ineffective krav maga workouts.
My only personal advantage would be size. The average actor is smaller than an American Girl doll. But take it from a failed offensive linemen: size means very little if you don’t know how to use it properly. I might have the reach on Tom Cruise, but Tom Cruise would still kick my ass and then go BASE jumping off the Sphinx’s nose.
What percentage of marshmallows actually get eaten? I mean, you buy a bag, make s’mores once, and then leave the rest to solidify together and then throw them out.
Yeah, but you’re a grownup. There are limits to your appetite for marshmallows. Kids eat them with alarming zeal. They can spot marshmallows in the grocery bag from two miles away. ARE THOSE MARSHMALLOWS?!!!!! It’s like they have x-ray vision. They don’t last in my home. When I buy the miniature marshmallows for hot cocoa, the kids just dig out the marshmallows and then pour the cocoa down the fucking sink. They’re animals.
So I think the majority of marshmallows purchased are consumed. More so than fortune cookies, at least.
For the last two weeks I’ve been squeezing a glob of toothpaste directly from the tube into my mouth and spreading it across the teeth evenly with my tongue before polishing it all off with a wet toothbrush. I have no idea what possessed me to start doing this, but I was definitely not sober. Should I be murdered?
Yes. Don’t do that. It’s one thing to use your finger as a toothbrush out of desperation (aw yeah, bachelorhood!), but to apply toothpaste to your fingers as a standard habit is lunacy. You don’t know where your finger has been. It could have been up your butt. Don’t do that to yourself. Your finger is an unneeded middleman in that transaction. I suspect you’re doing this ON PURPOSE just so you can be unique. You’re a GLORY BOY, is what you are.
My wife and I are expecting our first child this winter. We currently live in a 2-bedroom, 1500 square foot condo. Seems more than big enough for two adults and a baby. But, I’m slowly starting to notice that all MY shit needs to be moved or disappear completely. More specifically, my office area in the guest room. We are turning this into a nursery for the Newbie, which I agree is necessary, but when I suggest a location on where I should put my computer and monitors, I’m denied. Am I only going to be able to have like 1 square foot of space for my stuff?
Yep. Your shit is always the expendable shit. Everything you own is now an imposition. “Oh, did you like this TV? STOP BEING SO SELFISH WE NEED A CHANGING STATION.” Daddy is the lowest priority in the house. It’s a fact of life. Even fridge space gets co-opted. You will never buy a cold 30-pack at the store again, or else you will get The Look. You trade away all your valued assets in return for becoming a grumpy old man who just wants to shit alone. It’s not so bad. You get used to it. I own two shirts and one pair of cargo shorts. I have nothing else to my name in the house. I could live in a dumpster and survive, I tell you.
Email of the week!
Out of the blue my first cousin, who I am not very close with don’t really like all that much, asked me and my wife if we’d be willing to go on record in their will as the legal guardians of ALL SEVEN of their children should they both perish. My first reaction was not no but HELLS NO, but then we thought the reasonable answer might be to agree to take the two kids we’re actually godparents to.
As we are fully vetting this ridiculous proposition, we realize that they are both only children with aged parents and probably just don’t have anyone else to ask and would rather them come to us (who don’t have any children yet, praise the deity) than become wards of the state or something. Then we started feeling like selfish assholes thinking that there’s probably a tiny percentage of a chance that both parents would die before the youngest is 18 and it might give them some peace of mind if we agree. So are we assholes for not graciously saying yes or are they assholes for attempting to foist their Duggar starter kit upon our childless married bliss?
This is cousin? Not a sibling? I say the children get sent to Count Olaf.
For real though, just say yes to all of the kids. What are the odds of BOTH parents dying at once? Even if something that awful DID happen, you’d have the perfect sitcom pitch. “What happens when two selfish MILLENIALS have to care for seven grief-stricken orphans? HILARITY! That’s what.”
Drew Magary writes for Deadspin. He’s also a correspondent for GQ. Follow him on Twitter @drewmagary and email him at firstname.lastname@example.org. You can also order Drew’s book, Someone Could Get Hurt, through his homepage.
Illustration by Sam Woolley.