Say a semi-truck carrying a tanker of gasoline crashed into the First Take set, causing Skip Bayless and Stephen A. Smith (nobody else though) to both die a slow, fiery, and agonizing death. Would the malaise from the sports media collectively mourning the loss of these toilet people outweigh the relief and joy of never having to hear either of them express an opinion ever again?
Death tends to soften everything, so I assume that the tragic demise of Skip and Stephen A. would result in a fond remembrance of their abject stupidity. Hey, remember when Skip said that thing about LeBron? That was funny. And remember when Stephen A. defended that one wife-beater? We all had a good time with that. I would desperately miss making fun of both men, much as it pains me to admit it.
This summer, ESPN divested itself of Bill Simmons, Gregg Easterbrook, Keith Olbermann, Colin Cowherd, AND Jason Whitlock (pending). Given how often this site has made fun of all five of those men, you would think we would consider this an ideal outcome. But NO! No, now my life is empty and void without that hate in my heart. A boring ESPN is far less amusing than an actively boorish ESPN. I am lost. Rudderless. I didn’t know what I had until it was GONE. I can picture John Skipper sitting in his office, cackling at me and screaming, “THIS IS WHAT YOU WANTED!”
And so it is my fervent hope that First Take stays on the air forever, and that Skip and Stephen A. grow long into old age, dishing out bad takes for the masses. Even after they die, I want their heads preserved and attached to android bodies, so that they can broadcast from ESPN’s moon base. They are all the hate I have left.
Is it normal to keep your maple syrup in the fridge? A friend of mine does it, and I think less of her because of it. There’s no point, it makes the syrup more viscous (i.e., harder to dispense) when you end up using it, and why would you want COLD syrup on a hot breakfast food? She still thought it was the right thing to do after I made these points. I probably shouldn’t have shouted at her.
I also keep syrup in the fridge, and frankly, I’m not sure why. There’s no scientific reason to put it in there, given that the sugar in maple syrup acts as its own preservative. It’s not like I put honey in the fridge. That would be lunacy.
I can only think of two reasons to put syrup in the fridge. The first, obviously, is so that the cold syrup can counter the solar-surface temperature of an Eggo waffle coming out of the toaster oven. Every time those waffles are finished toasting, I do that thing where I reach into the toaster oven and try to scoot them out onto my plate, only to howl in pain as a result. And there are tongs readily available to me, too. But I’m so lazy that I’d rather burn myself than open a drawer to retrieve them. Anyway, the syrup cools down the waffles like ketchup cools down a hot French fry, which is useful if you have children in the house and they act like Joan of Arc anytime they put something above room temperature into their mouths.
The only other reason to put syrup in the fridge is because of the bottle size. Syrup bottles are big and bulky and annoying, so sometimes it’s better to just stick that bottle of Mrs. Butterworth’s in the door of the fridge and forget about it until nine months later when the cap has been welded shut by dried tree resin.
By the way, I am incapable of keeping any bottle of honey or syrup clean. By the second day of use, that bottle is stuck fast to any surface it happens to be resting on. Why must everything so sweet be so sticky?
Is the concept of the “blind date” 100 percent dead at this point? I am old enough to remember life without cell phones and Wi-Fi, but also young enough to embrace dating apps like Tinder and Hinge. Thinking about a time when you were set up on dates through friends of friends where you would meet having no prior conversation or concept of what they look like is preposterous.
Yeah, I doubt anyone under the age of 20 will ever go on a true blind date ever again. But you know what? I think that whole concept was dead BEFORE the internet. I never went on a blind date. Who the fuck would agree to a blind date? That’s for sitcoms and reality shows. No sane person would ever agree to sit for a full evening out with a complete stranger. If you have a friend who wants to set you up, you usually have some kind of intermediary introduction, right? You meet them with a group at a bar or at a party or some shit like that. You don’t automatically commit three hours of your life to that gamble. Only a fool would do that.
Tinder offers the best of all worlds because it’s still KINDA blind. You can see pictures and all that, but it still won’t give you an exact idea of what that person will look like in real life, right? There’s still that moment of apprehension beforehand, where you picture the other person walking in looking like either a sex god or a sea creature. That little bit of angst is still there (I assume). So you’re on a blind date, only your odds are improved, and you don’t have actually go on a date before getting to the dry-humping part. I envy you youngsters out there. You perfected the model. Don’t let anyone ever tell you the old way was better.
Why haven’t we seen a billionaire on the moon? If I had a billion dollars, I’d build a rocket and go to the moon. Also, when will we see a billionaire on the moon?
I assume because it costs more than a billion dollars to build a rocket and go to the moon. And billionaires aren’t fans of spending their own money. Once you’re a billionaire, you never have to spend your own money ever again, because you can just strong-arm governments and companies into paying for shit for you. Every free hotel suite and goody bag that should be granted to poor people almost always ends up going to rich assholes instead. THE SYSTEM WORKS.
Anyway, cost aside, the reason you haven’t seen some billionaire fly to the moon and back is because going to the moon is very dangerous. If you had a billion dollars, would you risk it all by strapping yourself in a tin can and sitting on top of a rocket? Hell no. If you die, you don’t get to enjoy your billion dollars ever again. No more infinity pools. No more five-star hookers. No more crushing your enemies with an army of well-paid lawyers. It’s not worth the risk. If I had a billion dollars, I would never jeopardize the enjoyment of my fortune. I would lock myself in my compound, jealously guarding my loot, growing paranoid and lashing out at anyone who dares to steal from me. That would make me happy!
Also, billionaires are deluded shitbags who think they have a responsibility to all the little people to live on and do good things for humanity, like invent a new flavor of Slice.
I went to a strip club for the first time last weekend. I sat at the stage for probably 5-10 minutes or so, and I wondered: What’s the appropriate thing to do when the stripper makes eye contact with you? Do I put on the serious “Yeah, baby, give it to me” face? Do I smile wryly? Do I show no emotion? Do I grin and give a thumbs-up? What are you supposed to do in that situation?
PLAY IT COOL, MAN! Give them some money and a small nod to let them know you appreciate all their hard work. You can also nod your head to the beat. That lets the stripper know that “Girls Girls Girls” was a fine song selection on her part.
Seriously though, the only time being at a strip club isn’t awkward is when you are either handing a stripper money or having them grind into you. That’s why men spend so much money at a titty bar. It’s not just because they’re horny. It’s because they have to fill the vacuum somehow. The money buys you a small moment of comfort.
Nobody sends food back at a restaurant because, you know, it’s a pain, you don’t want to cause a scene, you’re hungry, andyou don’t want spit in your food. But if none of those situations were in play, what percentage of food would be sent back?
Maybe 50 percent, if only because of buyer’s remorse. If you had the freedom to switch to what your friend ordered (they got the veal parm, while you stupidly ordered some shitty fish taco), you’d exercise that option freely. But lemme say this: If you think there is something genuinely wrong with what you ordered (beyond simply not liking it), send it back. Don’t be afraid.
I went to Iowa for this GQ piece and ate at a Mexican joint (my first mistake, obviously). I ordered a margarita, and when it came, it smelled like spoiled raw chicken. You know the smell I’m talking about. This drink legitimately smelled like a package of leg quarters that had been left out in the sun. So I sent it back, even though the waiter barely spoke English and thought I was a crazy person for saying my drink smelled like pollo. He brought a new drink to me, and even if it had spit in it, it was still probably safer to drink than whatever was in the previous glass. A good restaurant will accept you sending back food if there’s a legitimate reason to do it. So stand up for yourself if there’s a roach in your burger, dammit. Don’t let the threat of rogue saliva bully you into biting in.
It’s 1492, and you just landed on the east coast of America. You have a Jeep with unlimited gas and an AK-47 with unlimited ammo. How long does it take you to get to the Pacific? Do you even make it?
How the fuck will you make it without roads? It’s a Jeep. I know that Jeep ads make it seem like Tammy the Soccer Mom can go driving over trees with one, but that’s not the case. The only thing a Jeep can run over is a baby stroller in the Beachcomber parking lot.
Anyway, if you had the Jeep and the gun, you’d still be dead meat within hours. Your car would get stuck. Your gun would jam. Native tribes would use deadly-accurate blowguns to take you down before you even knew they were hunting you. You would have no chance. A gun and a car can only do so much for modern wusses like you and me.
I was wondering what you do when you desperately have to take a shit, but you’re with your kids in a public area?
If the kid is under age six or so, you have to bring them with you. There’s really no choice. I can’t trust my 3-year-old to sit there and NOT be kidnapped, or NOT walk behind the Five Guys counter and stick his hand in the deep fryer. He has to come into the bathroom with me, whether he likes it or not.
I was at a pool a few days ago and brought the youngest one into the bathroom because I had to go. I told him to wait outside the stall, but of course he couldn’t do that. He knocked on the stall door, so I had to open it and let him in while everyone else in the bathroom could see this shitting pervert welcome a child inside. Then the kid looked at me while I was pushing one out, and he was like, “I don’t like these smells.” YOU’RE THE ONE WHO ASKED TO COME IN, KIDDO.
Everyone could hear us yapping while I was pooping. It was awful. And do you know what the worst part is? It’s unavoidable. I could shit before leaving the house as a precaution, and it wouldn’t matter. God makes it so that parenting is just one awkward shit after the next. I haven’t had a restful shit in 10 years.
How far do you think the average MLB player could hit a golf ball that’s pitched to them like a normal baseball?
Well, a golf ball is much lighter and aerodynamic than a baseball. So if Yasiel Puig hits it square, that shit is going WAY out of the park, farther than a standard baseball. The question is: Would it go farther than a standard drive off the tee? Our Tim Burke, who often sounds like a convincing smart person, says:
A bat has more mass but is much more elastic than a golf club, which means it cannot transmit the energy as efficiently. A golf club transfers most of its kinetic energy to the golf ball, but a bat absorbs it. BUT, in this instance, the golf ball has more energy because it is already moving. I would say 500 yards.
That’s farther than a drive off the tee. I think you know what that means: We need to replace all regulation baseballs with golf balls. Today. You know it’s the right thing to do. Make the ballpark three times as big and force teams to use eight outfielders. INSTANT IMPROVEMENT.
I just had surgery on my upper jaw (had it re-positioned). One result of this type of surgery is that my nose is now a bit broader (better breathing!). However, one other result of this surgery is that the interior geometry of my nose has changed! As such, when I pick my nose, it now feels completely foreign to me. I’m only two weeks in, but so far I feel like it’s an upgrade. I’m excited to explore the new nose and the booger challenges it brings me. This is a good thing right—I should be honored?
Damn, now I’m a little bit jealous. Here I am picking boogers out of a standard-issue nose when I could have enhanced sinus-excavating abilities. This is the kind of plastic surgery I would pay for. If you told me I could plunk down five dollars and fit two fingers up there (with no visible nose enlargement), I’d get in line TODAY for that little bit of miracle rhinoplasty. Or what if I could open up my ear canals and get at some of those earwax rocks? Damn, that would be nice. DOUBLE MY TAINT! Yes, double my taint space. So much room in that taint. I could hang out with that taint all day.
I just want to spend all my time EXPLORING MY BODY. I want doctors to drill a giant hole in my gut so that I can root around and feel my own organs. WOW, THIS SPLEEN IS SO SQUISHY! Damn, feel that gallstone! I will never stop being fascinated by the horrors of my own inner workings.
Let’s imagine Sepp Blatter and Roger Goodell somehow swap jobs. Who drives their new league and sport into a bigger ditch? Blatter would bring in his uniquely special brand of corruption/bribery/insanity, and Goodell would export blistering incompetence and probably fuck with the rules in ways that would cause riots. Which sport ends up worse off in the long run?
Soccer. It’s not even close. Put Sepp Blatter in charge of the NFL, and nothing really changes. Everyone still hates the commissioner, but the evil plutocrat in charge helps owners (and himself) make a mint anyway.
But if you put Roger Goodell in charge of soccer, literal war would break out between developing nations thanks to his ham-fisted stupidity. Think of the elaborate system of bribery and favor-trading that Blatter has set up to keep FIFA operating smoothly. You think the Ginger Hammer is preserving that delicate, oddly functional scheme of international corruption? God, no. He’d be like I’M CLEANING UP THIS SPORT, and by 2022 they’d be playing the game on bicycles. The difference between those two men is that Goodell doesn’t KNOW he’s corrupt, which is why he’s fucking worthless.
I know that NFL owners think Goodell is a financial miracle-worker, but the truth is that commissioner of the NFL is probably the easiest gig in the universe. What is there to do apart from using your insane resources to bully the occasional network head or city council member? A fucking dog could do that job. By contrast, plotting with a slave state to create hovering weather stations for a phony-baloney winter World Cup AND have every major nation go along with it is serious work. Blatter is a pro at being evil. Goodell is a toddler by comparison.
What would be a better song:
Journey’s “Open Arms,” performed by Creed
Creed’s “With Arms Wide Open,” performed by Journey?
I don’t like either song, but I guess I would have to be predictable and take Journey covering the terrible Creed song. In general, I hate parenting anthems like that one, or that terrible song Jay Z made after his kid was born. That does not fire me up. I like music about getting drunk and having sex and fighting people. I’m not running through a brick wall just because you had some asshole kid. THAT IS THE DAY YOU STOPPED ROCKIN’.
Still beats hearing Scott Stapp mangle some old chestnut, though. There are so many bad butt rock covers out there of old songs. They hurt me. They inflict real damage on my person. Like this one:
I don’t even like Wham!, and this still deeply offends me. It makes me despair.
How far would a 39-year-old Tim Duncan slide in the draft if he was just entering the league?
Late first round, I say. In the NBA Draft, every player after the lottery is hot garbage anyway. You may as well take a flyer on Old Man Duncan and hope your team absorbs his old-man GRIT and learns a thing or two about having the heart of a damned champion. His intangibles can’t be measured!
So you’re walking home one night, and you see Nick Saban shoot someone execution-style right in the face. Word gets out to the fans that it was you who witnessed the murder. What are your chances of survival?
With these people bearing down on me?
I can only outrun them for so long. They WILL find me and have me “contained.”
I was having a stoner argument with my buddies the other night. I basically said the best way to watch a football game on TV would be to have the camera behind the QB as the main camera, like they do with that camera on a wire for some of the national televised games. I’m sure the technology to have that replace the sideline cameras is either existing or not too far away. It’s perfect. You can see the protection and defensive alignment perfectly, and watch the holes and routes set up during the play. He disagreed, saying he is too used to the way the game has always been broadcast. I get that, but I said it would only take like half a season to get used to it, and then it would be normal and fantastic. I tried to persuade him by saying that he would never play Madden using the sideline camera. He agreed, but still disagreed on the original argument. He was just high, right?
No, he was correct. I’m too used to watching the game from the side angle. When FOX lingers on another angle for too long, I get angry. It looks weird and wrong, and I don’t care for it. Plus, it ruins your depth perception. If you stayed behind the QB the whole time, you wouldn’t be able to see a long ball streak across the screen. And you wouldn’t be able to tell how many yards a running play got. That’s far more important to me than anything else. I want the Tecmo Bowl view. I really get the feel of a 20-yard run that way.
Also, I’ve said this before, but it bears repeating: I don’t give a fuck about having a clear view of the interior line play. I know that football know-it-alls (God, there are so many) extol the virtues of all-22 game film, but I can’t bring myself to give half a shit. Just show me where the ball goes. That’s all that has ever mattered to me.
I just plucked what appears to be an abnormally long chest hair: It measures out at 2.5 inches. A quick Google search turns up nothing on what the average length of an adult male’s chest hair should be, but 2.5 inches seems long. Is that long? No one at work seems to be able to help.
That IS long! That chest-hair length is exacerbated if, like me, you have WIRY chest hair instead of curly chest hair. If you’re some swarthy Sicilian bastard, your curly chest lawn can probably tuck away endless coils of hair. When the hair hangs straight down, it’s far more noticeable and alarming. I have ear hair. It sticks right out. It’s like a jungle vine, reaching for the sun. It makes itself known right away. This is not good body hair.
Email of the week!
About five years ago, me and a then-coworker had to go on a business trip together. We definitely weren’t real non-work friends, but we were friendly enough work colleagues. We stayed at the house of a friend of his, and a group of us went out and got very drunk. I thought I remembered the night well enough, and that it was fairly unremarkable as far as drunkenness goes.
We eventually moved onto separate jobs, and I haven’t seen or talked to this guy in years. But last week, a mutual friend randomly mentioned the trip to me, and what the former coworker had told him afterward: After we got back from drinking and went to bed, I had apparently gotten up in the night without truly waking, and took a piss on my former coworker thinking I was in the bathroom. I have no memory of this, but it would be a weird thing to just make up. Am I under an obligation now, years later, to find this guy and belatedly apologize for drunkenly pissing on him? Or should I take the fact that he didn’t tell me the next day to mean that he’d rather pretend it didn’t happen?
Leave it be. No need to open old wounds that have been peed in.
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.
Lead image by Sam Woolley.