Today, we’re talking about fart ventriloquism, Street Fighter, Bernie the Avalanche mascot, and more.
Scroll through any of our sites this week, dig through all of the year end recaps and lists, and you’ll notice one common thread: 2018 fucking suuuuuuucked. While I could go on about Trump, Kanye, or even Offset and Cardi B (don’t take him back, booboo), those lists already exist, written by people far more eloquent than me. Shit, I draw pictures all day. Here’s my 2018 list. There’s only one item on it. I present to you dear reader (and Daniel Radcliffe): the Best Tweet of the Year:
Our big boy is still on the mend, so the rest of the Deadspin Idiots and friends are still guest-hosting Funbag until he’s back. Keep sending your questions. I really hope Drew is sitting by a warm fireplace this Christmas, reading this and not muttering, “Fuckin’ Woolley ruined Funbag.”
If someone shows a shoe at Trump, does he dodge it like Dubya or does he take it to the face?
As someone not as well versed in politics or as many synonyms for orange things as Roth or Albert, I proposed this question to my homegirl’s father, who may or may not have been Secret Service. He replied (to his daughter via text): “Of course he would dodge it, wouldn’t anyone dodge it? Does your friend think he has a physical problem of some kind that would stop him from moving out of the way? That is a stupid question.” So, there’s that answer. From a professional.
But we all know, regardless whether he does dodge or take it, he’ll inevitably tweet some horseshit like: “Weak Weak Throw…….something something superior human with cat like reflexes…..Crooked Hilary’s email……..something something……@foxandfriends.”
A wizard has granted you the power of fart ventriloquism.
You must now choose between two gifts: the ability to “throw your voice” such that your every fart will appear to emanate from some location of your choice (other than your anus) but the smell stays near you like normal, OR the ability to teleport the smell of your fart to the location of your choice, but the sound comes out of your asshole like normal. Both powers are limited to the range of your normal, indoor speaking voice (i.e., no teleporting all of your farts into Trump’s face/nose/mouth unless you happen to be within speaking distance of him).
What do you choose? Under what circumstances do you most look forward to using your new power?
First of all, I just want to hang out with this wizard. Sure, the wizard who gives you all the riches and whatnot is cool, but this wizard who gives you options of which fart-related powers you could have? Sign me up! As someone who rides the subway on a daily basis, I am already in possession of this gift, sort of. When I put on headphones, I straight up coffee fart all the time. And I have no idea if there was a sound or not…
Ok, so say cool fun Uncle Genie offers me these gifts—I’m taking the ability to “throw your voice” such that your every fart will appear to emanate from some location of your choice (other than your anus) but the smell stays near you like normal. And I’m marching my flatulence either to 30 Rock, Fox News, or any other live TV or news station that separates the audience by a barrier or glass wall. Imagine how much better Tucker Carlson would sound with fart sounds interrupting him?
“Except they’re —- BRAAAAAAAAAAPPPPPPP!!!! —— not disclosed and never will be. Why is that? That mi—TOOOOOOOOOOOOTTTTTTTTT!!!—be a question for congressional leaders, including, Rep. —-RRRRRRRRRRIP!!!!!——Adam Schiff of Burbank, Calif., the incom—PFFFFFFFFFFFFFTPT!!!!—— chairman of the House Intelligence Committee, a very pow—- BRAAAAAAAAAAPPPPPPP!!!!——- man in Congress. What does Mr. Schiff have to say about -FTTTTTTTTHHHHHHWAAAAAARRRRRRRTTTTTT!!!!!”—-Congress not disclosing the very same payments that Democrats say Trump sho ——-TOOOOOOOOOOOOTTTTTTTTT!!! ——be impeached for not disclosing?”
This is television gold and I’m here for it. And I don’t give a shit if people smell it. I’m outside on the street with tourists and this is revenge for them leaning on the middle pole on the subway every fucking time.
What’s the official Deadspin stance on reading library books while shitting? I recently rented Leitch’s God Save the Fan and found myself bringing it into the bathroom before realizing that this was a contemptible and vile act. At the same time, I cannot be the first one to have done this, though that is an even more disturbing thought and I’ve really tried to avoid even considering what others have done with library items.
There was this gal I lived with in college that was a highly intelligent crust punk who constantly read. Anyway, I had some book which she expressed interest reading, so she borrowed said book and over time I forgot about it. Homegirl left school to travel with her man’s band for a semester and left her room empty except for shit she had borrowed from other people. (“Crusties are all about sharing, man.”) My roommates and I took turns retrieving our various items, and I saw my book among the haul. I don’t think I had ever read the book she borrowed, but I opened it to find dried boogers on pretty much each page as a bookmark. Ever since, I’ve had a strict policy on lending and receiving books. This policy is now: buy new. Shrink-wrapped, even. Who knows what that library book has been through! There are some foul-ass people in the world who do dreadful things while a book is in splashdown range. You should see my copy of The Hike.
Call me old-fashioned, but books aren’t for the bathroom. Bathroom reading is relegated to catalogs, magazine/comics, and the back of your hand soap bottle.
Suffering OCD most of my life, I have for years carefully folded my washcloth in quarters lengthwise when hanging it to dry any time that I use it to wash my ass. If I haven’t used it this way, I simply hang it folded in half. That way, I can clearly tell when it is a bad idea to use it again. This has worked fine through 22 years of marriage until last week. I noticed that my wife used my washcloth which had been folded in quarters. Given that I am only aware of the one instance weighed against the likelihood of her continuing, periodically, to use my washcloths... do I tell her what happened?
Rob, my guy, I want to take a moment to sing your praises for using a washcloth. A long time ago, I was just a wee lad, reared on bar soap. One night, I stayed at my friend Poochie’s apartment and his mom left me a towel and a washcloth. I thought to myself, Well that was nice of her to leave me a handkerchief. It wasn’t until I saw only liquid soap that I connected the dots and realized that the washcloth was for my entire body, not just my nose. Since then I’ve been a washcloth or loofah type of guy. Bar soap and its ability to retain everyone’s pubes is for the birds. (Actually, they use oil soap.)
After 22 years of marriage, I’m sure your wife using your folded washcloth isn’t the only “dirty” thing she’s done, you old dog. The easiest solution would be that if you happen to notice your washcloth has been used, unfurled, or moved, that just means it’s time to throw it in the hamper and a new washcloth is ready to be used and meticulously folded in quarters. There’s no reason to tell her anything, I… hope.
What sport would Dhalsim (the stretchy arms guy from Street Fighter) excel most at? And would that talent alone be enough to make him a hall of famer? (I assume he’d be unstoppable in goal like situations have a free “throw” percentage of 100%.)
Initially my answer was gonna be some cake shit: basketball, thinking along the lines of men like Gheorghe Muresan, Shawn Bradley and Manute Bol, all of whom are tallish. Then, I did some research (which damn, SF2 fandom is alive and well). Holy shit, Dhalsim is a petite person. Like tiny. Dude is 5-foot-9 and a buck-55. To put that into perspective, former One Direction man Zayn Malik is 5-foot-9 and 154 pounds. I’m sure Zayn is a lovely lad, as demonstrated by eloquent lyrics like, “In the bed all day, bed all day, bed all day/Fucking in and fighting on/It’s our paradise and it’s our war zone.” But I can’t imagine this tiny modern poet version of Bob Dylan being able to scrap. This makes me believe that Dhalsim, a man who is basically the same size as Zayn Malik, is not the scrapping sort.
Sure, you’re thinking, But he’s in a fighting tournament, so he must be a wee bit athletic—but let’s be real: Who even plays with Dhalsim? Really, think about it…….I’ll wait.
Some context: The corner of St. Marks and Third Avenue in New York in the ‘90s was a very pivotal corner for Street Fighter. Players came from all over NYC to play those machines. Sure, you had spots in Queens and a pizza parlor in Bay Ridge that had their respective champs, but St. Marks was where legends were made. I’ve seen what I still believe were the greats. The “play all day for one quarter” greats. And let me tell you, none of them used that bum-ass “YOGA FLAME.” People didn’t even use him as a novelty player to show off that they knew every character’s move. Dhalsim, Blanka, and Zangief were scrubs and I imagine the only reason they were involved in the Street Fighter tournament was because of some wack-ass criteria like “Good class attendance” or some other bullshit award. Dhalsim is also 66 years old. A washed 66-year-old man who is built like a former boy band member ain’t competing in shit.
For some god damned reason the Colorado Avalanche replaced their mascot, Howler the Yeti, with a dumb as shit looking St. Bernard named Bernie. With the impressive debut of Gritty is it time for the Avalanche to bring Howler out of retirement? Also, who would win in a fight between Gritty and Howler?
If you come to Times Square or Grauman’s Chinese Theater, you’re surrounded by a menagerie of colorful characters. At first glance, you’re like, “Oh shit, Elmo!!!” Walk a little nearer and it’s closer to Elmer, his “special” cousin. Maybe his tattered fur isn’t fire engine red, or his nose is blue instead of orange; he’s Elmo, but he’s not really Elmo. That’s what Bernie is to me. He’s almost like a legit and familiar mascot, but something isn’t quite right. He’s the rent-a-costume mascot of a small Ford dealership in rural Indiana—the ones with the dealership’s owner’s kids proclaiming “Our Dad knows SALES” in the regional commercial. He comes across cheap. I’m not gonna do a deep dive into mascot YouTube, but I’m assuming Bernie’s go-to move is the “I did something bad, but I can’t talk, so I’m just gonna shrug.” When I was a kid, my mom took me to Disney World and I remember being so geeked to meet Goofy. When I did, imagine my horror when I saw that all this dude do was shrug. A kid would cry, Goofy would shrug. A kid would ask Goofy to sign their autograph book, Goofy would shrug. Twelve years at The Actors Studio, and all you got for me is a fucking shrug?!
Take this shrug, Bernie, because I’m over you. Howler was a legit mascot. He looked professionally made and whimsical and was a Yeti, which goes hand in hand with Colorado because of snow. Bring back Howler and his actual personality.
However, in a fight, Howler has no shot. Look at Gritty. He’s got crazy eyes. There is no fear in those eyes. Never fight with people with crazy eyes, that’s just common knowledge. Also, he’s a Philly dude, and we all know small-city dudes are notorious for being tough guys. These same dudes in places like New York and L.A. know they’re tough just because of notoriety of those cities, but….Philly, Cleveland, and Boston dudes have to be tough to overcompensate for not being one of the big boys.
Am I the only one who waits until the bathroom is clear before exiting the shitter stall?
I mean, I won’t wait in there all day, but if I’m getting ready to exit (say, finishing up wiping), and I hear someone coming in and using the urinal, I’ll wait until I hear them leave. I feel awkward storming out of the stall, like, “Yes, I am the proud shitter who stunk up the bathroom. Shake!”
About 73 percent of the time I use the urinal at work, someone in the adjacent stall lets out one of those muted trumpet farts. You know those long-winded, high-pitched whinnies? I’m 40 years old and that shit cracks me the fuck up EVERY TIME. On the flip side, there’s this one dude here (DM me for the name) that lets it all go every time, moaning and sighing as it happens, and that shit isn’t as funny. I respect your enthusiasm, B, but the sighs? Really?
A little peek behind the curtain here: At the old Gawker offices, there were four individual room bathrooms at the end of the open office. People would see who went in and for how long. I held out on shitting in the office for as long as possible, because I had an image to maintain. Eventually the day came. I had to let ‘er rip. And what happened? I clogged the fucking toilet. I had to ask Maritza, the real hero of GMG, for a mop and plunger. With that said, I now have no shame in waiting for the room to clear. But for the love of god, don’t fucking sigh or moan, weirdo (Samer).
Why does Donald Trump Junior have black hair? His father and mother are blonder than blond. His siblings all have blond hair. Even his half sister and brother, whose mothers have brown hair, have blond hair. And yet Donnie has jet black hair. AND there is no doubt whatsoever that he is Donald Trumps son.
Digging through the mental crates back to seventh grade biology, the MC1R gene transmi—oh who am I bullshitting, I have no idea. But I have a theory:
The adult male Trumps are all caricatures of what successful men in New York should be. Politics aside, from the get-go the family has been nothing more than grifting glorified carnival barkers, bullshitting through life with the “Dress for success” mantra drilled into their heads as a result of constant repetition from their father. They tell you how successful they are, but never really show you proof of their success. All these kids are playing a role—a cool and successful business guy. Let’s take a look at Eric. Dude is trying to channel the rich dirtbag aesthetic of Roman Roy a little too much. And then there’s Donny Jr., who I’m 99 percent sure has a framed poster of American Psycho or Wall Street. If those two leads were blond men, I’m sure Donny Jr. would dye his hair. Donny wants to be loved and adored by his father. The way to get that love? Project an image of success and wealth. Daddy loves.
Your life depends on winning a medal in an Olympic sport—summer or winter. If you choose a team sport, you must play every minute of every game/match/whatever (you can’t just sit on the bench as a member of the USA men’s basketball team). You have four years to train full-time, with all expenses paid and every coach and resource at your disposal, and you don’t have to go through any qualifying. Which sport and event do you choose?
While I spat copious amounts of shit on bum-ass Dhalsim, I feel the need for transparency: I, too, am an old. I am of similar height and weight. A brief aside: Fuck you, Zayn, I’d still win in a street fight. Test me son, if you really “don’t wanna live forever.” KIDDING, DUDE. Zquad 4 LYFE.
Now that you know the real me, I think it would have to be an Olympic sport where I could put in minimal physical activity and still be productive for my team (I’m assuming I’d need to do a team sport). Or, I could try a sport I’m not very good at, like Eddie the Eagle or Doug E. Doug in Cool Runnings, just for a shot at infamy and ultimately a book deal that leads to a movie featuring a soundtrack with some washed lead singer sing-talking “You can do it if you give it a shottttttttt” over a montage of me training in the Alps. You know what, I just talked myself into option B. Don Henley, you better get to writing, my dude. Unless you’re dead. But alas, competing in the Olympics in this scenario is not for fame, infamy or my name on a cross-promotional 7-Eleven cup … it’s about the medal. Option A it is. Easy answer: coxswain. Gold.
Your first date with a new S/O is November 29. Her birthday is late January. Do you ignore Christmas and just start gift-giving for her birthday? Do you ignore both (probably not)? Do you just send it and get gifts for both holidays?
Your first date was about about a month ago and you’re already talking about Christmas gifts? I believe it was Brand Nubian who told us to SLOW DOWN! While I’m a fan of romance and the excitement that comes with it, remember this is a marathon and not a sprint. The holidays bring stress, emotions, and other fun stuff, so it’s okay to get caught up in the distractions of dates, NEW relationships and the like, but on the real, you don’t REALLY know this person. What’s her favorite color? What’s her sister’s name?
Since dating this person is new and fresh, take her out for a nice dinner and PAY. This way, it’s another date and a gift at the same time. By late January, you’ll know if you are invested in this person enough to get her the big birthday gift. One bonus tip: Swing by the restaurant a day early and introduce yourself to whoever handles the reservations as well as the door. It’s a boss move to come in the next day and have the maitre d’ pull that “Ryan, so good to see you again” shit.
Time for the Drew Story of the Week! My first Funbag was August 6, 2013. I had no idea who Drew was. I had no idea that this enormous amateur chef and I would work together on Funbag and Jamboroo almost exclusively for the next five-plus years. While it’s one thing to make my boss happy whenever I’d send a final version of Funbag, it wasn’t until Drew sent back “FUCK YEAH!!!!!!!” or “AWESOME!!!!!!!!” that I felt like the piece was complete. Deadspin is and always has been a family, a family that has lovingly treated me like the weird cousin who only visits at funerals or odd holidays like Boxing Day. Drew, like it or not, has always been the “dad” of the family. Based off two-thirds of his jokes, it’s easy to see why he fits in this role. Deadspin will continue to be a family, led, run and employed by the best and most kick ass people in the biz. With that said, I’m completing the circle. This is my last Funbag. I’m leaving the company and the family to explore the Big City. The Big Apple. Streets paved with gold. Bye for now.