Time for your weekly edition of the Deadspin Funbag. Got something on your mind? Email the Funbag. Today, we’re covering soundtracks, lechery, Trump, and more.
My sister (17) caught me (21) smoking weed in our backyard the other day. We got to talking about it, and she told me she had never tried it, but was interested in it. We live in an area where weed is taboo, but very easily attainable. Today she asked me if she could buy a negligible amount to smoke with her friends. I’m conflicted, because all “big brother” senses point to protecting her from the inevitable laziness that weed brings, but she’s the same age I was when I started, has good grades, and will be going to state college next year. So my question is: How far do I go to help her out?
But what if you give her weed, and she goes from smoking weed to smoking METH?! And then she drops out of school, shacks up with a bassist, robs tenements to pay for her addiction, goes to prison, converts to a terrifying off-sect of fundamentalist Baptism, and it’s all YOUR fault?! That can happen! IT’S A FACT. I’ve seen at least old five episodes of Lifestories: Families in Crisis that have this very plot!
Anyway, there are a couple ways to play this, depending on what kind of big brother you are:
1. ASSHOLE BIG BROTHER. You sell your sister the weed, but you exploit her naiveté and mark up the price so high that she ends up funding your original supply. Then when she asks for you to cut her a break, you laugh in her face and say, “NUH UH, TINA. GOOD LUCK FINDING YOUR OWN STASH, LOOOOSER.” Then you peel off in your Camaro. If your name is Chad or Todd, you will do this.
2. KEWL BIG BROTHER. Instead of selling your sister weed, you simply GIVE it to her, and maybe even let her start with a hit off your vaping pen. Then you graduate to buying her cases of Busch Light for parties. Then you sleep with all her friends, and she finds out about it and hates you forever. But you did get to sleep with her friends, so it was kinda worth it!
3. UPTIGHT BIG BROTHER. As tempting as it is to be the KEWL big brother who supplies Little Sister with weed and cases of Busch Light, you don’t sell her any weed, because you are scared shitless of your parents finding out and throwing you off a cliff. You gotta cover your own ass, amigo. Instead of being a mentor and someone who teaches a young sibling about responsible pot usage, you opt for complete and total self-preservation. Then she learns about pot from a local dealer who laces it with PCP and becomes his eternal servant.
I was the youngest kid in my family, which explains my constant need for attention, and I don’t think my older sister or older brother—both of whom I got along with—ever bought beer or weed for me, because they didn’t want to get in trouble for doing it. And I don’t think I ever asked them, because I was afraid they would say no. They left me to figure that shit out on my own, and it all worked out. I would say that you can choose option no. 2 or option no. 3, and it should be fine. Just don’t be a Todd and take advantage.
Assuming Big Ben isn’t out for the whole season, what would Michael Vick have to accomplish to supplant him as the starter in Pittsburgh? Is there a scenario where Vick becomes such a “hot hand” that Tomlin has to stick with him?
No, because Big Ben had been playing so well prior to the injury. Even if Vick has one of his patented explosive comeback games—and it’s unlikely, because the Steelers don’t play the ’Skins this year, and Vick always has his big comeback games against the ’Skins—they’re still sitting his ass down when Roethlisberger gets back. Vick is done anyway. This is probably his last year in football.
By the way, Roethlisberger is basically indestructible. For any other quarterback, that hit would’ve meant a torn ACL. But Big Ben is so big and so dumb that he cannot be permanently damaged. Even when a fucking car T-bones his motorcycle, Big Ben gets up and is like DURRRR THAT WAS OUCHIE, TIME FOR PRACTICE DURRRR. His head is just a vacant warehouse of play-calls and groping memories, so he doesn’t register pain or grievous injury. If you cut Roethlisberger’s head off—like, if you lead him to a guillotine and let the blade fall and his big, dumb head falls into a basket—he STILL wouldn’t notice. His decapitated head would be like, “Hey, who we got this week? Coach Haley is a prick.”
Tornado dong! Do with it what you will!
Damn. Look at that dong. Pretty aggressive move by the sky, if you ask me. Highly problematic.
Do you think it’s ever appropriate to play metal at a funeral? I think the song “We’ll Meet Again” by Pantera would work well and wouldn’t be cheesy at all.
It’s completely appropriate. If you don’t think “Nothing Else Matters” has been played at least a thousand American memorial services, you are sorely mistaken. Ronnie James Dio got a metal funeral! People brought chairs!
That’s how it’s done, gang. If you spend your whole life exploring lyrical themes centered around death and accompanied by tasty riffs, you gotta go out the same way. I bet half of all Scandinavian funerals are metal-based. Just a hundred people rocking black leather at an abandoned church, solemnly holding their lighters in the air as Bjorn Flugenblugen does a stripped-down, tasteful version of “Stabbed and Crucified With Frozen Horse Dicks” for his fallen bandmate.
I have a vision of my own funeral stuck in my head. There’s a single tree on a hill, and there’s a procession up the hill to deposit my body into a hole just beneath it. And Radiohead’s “Videotape” plays the whole time, because that song is so goddamn depressing. And everyone is very sad, even though if I died in real life, people would just make a handful of tasteful jokes on Twitter and then move on to something idiotic that Stephen A. Smith said. I can SEE the funeral in my head, and sometimes it bothers me, and sometimes I kinda like it, even though I don’t know why. I think I’ve seen too many dream sequences from movies.
I work at a big university, and the other day I was heading across campus for a meeting, when from out of a building came a co-ed in a dress. I noticed that her book bag was caught on the bottom of her dress, pulling it up and exposing her underwear. I was frozen with fear. On the one hand, I don’t want this woman to walk however far across campus like this, but on the other, if I—a 33-year-old dude—tell her that her dress is hiked up, I feel like I’d come across like a lecherous creep. But on the third hand, I felt like seeing it and NOT telling her also made me a lecherous creep. I have a young daughter, so I tried to imagine what I would want a stranger to do if he saw my kid (at, like, 19) like this, and I still had no idea what to do. After about a hundred feet, she cut down a grassy path, and I hadn’t said anything. Right move?
Right move. Don’t do anything that might get the dreaded CREEP label affixed to you. Even if your intentions are pure, you are a man, and everyone assumes (rightfully) that every man has his head in the gutter. So if you say, “Excuse me, fine miss, but I couldn’t help but notice your butt,” all she’ll hear is that you noticed your butt. And then you are doomed. Your name and likeness gets listed right on the National Creep Registry, which is a real database that women keep that they don’t tell you about. I wouldn’t tell someone if there was a fucking rat on their head if that risk was involved. Forget it.
Besides, you may SAY you had a noble purpose, but secretly I bet you LIKED it. Didn’t you, you PERV?! You wanted a good view of that butt, and you didn’t want to eyeblock your best bros by ending the fun! ADMIT YOUR TREACHERY YOU HORNY SCUM.
I was seated with some friends & folks I just met at an all-male-late-thirties dinner. One of the guys I didn’t know told a very detailed, but pretty funny story about being propositioned by hookers in Vegas. I came over the top with my own true tale of visiting a five-star brothel in Romania while working in Bucharest (I kept it brief). Later, I was accused of being a dick for stealing the raconteur’s thunder. I say no, because it was on-topic. Where do you stand on trump-card / one-up stories?
Totally within the rules. The whole point of hanging out with other men is to a) insult each other, and then take it one step too far and have it end in a vicious brawl, and/or B) one-up each other with KRAZY stories about that time you got loaded and fought an entire motorcycle gang and ended up sleeping with a Venezuelan drug lord’s mistress. Once the topic’s set, you’re free to be like, “That’s nothing! ONE TIME A HOOKER SHIT ON MY FACE!” What’s the point of having friends if you can’t make their lives look boring and lame compared to your own? All my stories at cocktail parties are lame as hell. I got no story game.
Competitive storytelling is the key factor in all male-bonding exercises. If anyone is mad that you had a better hooker story, you tell them that they’re just BUTTHURT and should go get a better story out in the field. Now, lemme tell you about the time I was propositioned by a hooker who turned out to be the Queen of England … .
What event(s), if any, take priority over wiping one’s bottom when the event(s) commence while you are doing your business? Wife’s water breaking? Home invasion? Fire? I think no matter what is occurring, you take at least five seconds and take a few swipes.
Anything that instantly jeopardizes your life if you stay on the toilet. Like, if I see a rocket headed toward the toilet, and I die if I don’t get off the pot RIGHT NOW, I am getting off the pot. Survival instincts kick in. Wiping can wait. I’d rather be alive with a load in my pants than dead with a clean ass. Our ancestors were cavemen who walked around in poopy loincloths all the time. We’re more accustomed to swamp-ass than modern conditions would lead you to believe.
For as long as I can remember, I have never not laughed after hearing a commentator say “penetrate.” Am I the only one that stopped maturing at 13? Are there other commonly used sports phrases that always elicit a chuckle for you?
No, you should always laugh when Gruden throws down a PENETRATE, or a GASHING, or even an emphatic HARD, regardless of context. That is what keeps us all young. Once you stop laughing at accidental sexual entendres, life is no longer worth living. I will be 80 years old and still chuckling when a disembodied cyborg Jaws is on my future Oculus TV praising Justin Houston IV for his ability to “reach-around” android left tackles on the edge.
What are the odds Donald Trump’s run for president is a PFTCommenter-style satire to show us all how dumb we are? And even if he did announce it was a joke, how many people do you still think would vote for him?
Oh, I think plenty of people already think it’s a joke, but want to vote for him anyway, to teach those FATCATS IN WASHINGTON a lesson in just how severely Americans will injure themselves in order to teach politicians a lesson.
And I’m sure Trump got into this race as a win-win proposition: Either he loses and gets a shitload of attention in the process (they announced a book deal for him last week!), or he somehow WINS and finds every overblown thing he believes about himself validated by the American people. I bet, deep down, he didn’t quite expect to do so well in the polls, and is now taking the idea of becoming President WAY too seriously, which will then lead to his downfall.
I am like Trump voters in that I am always enchanted by non-politicians running for office, because politicians are such shitbags. This is the only place in American life where there is NO premium placed on actual experience working in a chosen field, which is dumb, because there has be to some advantage in hiring a politician who knows how to do important politician shit, like draft legislation and stage filibusters and exchange corn subsidies for straight bribes. If I had to hire someone to run a grain company, I’m not gonna look at some guy’s resume and be like, “Oh! Thank God this man has NO experience working with wheat. Sick of these wheat-biz bureaucrats holding the grain supply hostage.” That would be insane, and yet that mild prerequisite is seemingly unnecessary to get hired for the most important job on EARTH.
If I ever ran for office (not happening, due to that one time I admitted to fapping in my car), my platform would be, “I am a career politician. I am TOTALLY from Washington. I’m not gonna shake up ANYTHING, because people who try to shake up stuff here get sent right the fuck back home. Count on me to lie, cheat, and steal America back to the Promised Land.” I wouldn’t win any votes, but I’d still feel great about my campaign.
I hate it when when people hop out of the shower dripping wet and soak the hell out of the bathmat. Doesn’t any self-respecting person grab their towel while still in the shower and at least remove the gallons of water stuck to their legs and back before hopping onto the mat? The next person in the bathroom avoids soggy socks, and has a perfectly suitable landing pad when he hops out of the shower, and the thing lasts for more than a month before the rubber backing cracks and leaves little gross pellets everywhere. My sister-in-law is in town, and I’ve just had to hang the bathmat from the towel ring for it to drip dry (it’s literally dripping), and I’m angry. Is that unreasonable?
It is NOT! Everyone should dry off inside the shower if they can. I had a friend stay with me once, and when he was done showering, I swear to God my bathroom floor was a fucking LAKE. It was as if he turned the shower nozzle on the floor deliberately to flood the joint. I have no idea how the surface area of his body could possibly hold that much free moisture. So I was like, “What the fuck, man? MY FLOOR!” And he was like, “Why are you being such a tight-ass about it?” And I was like, “Because you flooded the floor, you dumbass bitch!” And then he was like, “Whatever WEIRDO,” like it was totally normal and right to dump 50 gallons of water on a bathroom floor. You listen to me, Jeremy: YOU GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER. I don’t care if there’s a grease fire on my bathroom floor. You keep that shit DRY. I’m not having any mildew up in here.
You know when you’re working out at gym, and your iPod dies, which in the case of my 300-year-old Nano is approximately every 5.3 minutes? You now have the vexing problem of what to do with it. I, being a path-of-least-resistance guy, leave the earphones in and keep on working out till I’m ready to leave. My girlfriend, however, thinks I’m nuts, and that the reasonable thing to do would be to take the earphones out and awkwardly try to fit the whole contraption in your pocket, and then continue with your workout while the cords occasionally dangle out and wrap around your legs, causing you to trip and fall in front of all the cool kids. The change room is waaaay too far away to even consider walking over and putting it in your locker—I mean, I don’t go to the gym to do unnecessary physical activity. Anyway, she’s wrong and I’m right, right?
My first move is to plug the headphones into the TV doohickey on the machine, try to watch TV, realize I picked the treadmill with a broken TV doohickey, curse, and then either leave my headphones on to drown out the terrible music coming over the gym PA (For real, it’s nothing but “Bad Blood” 24/7), or I put my headphones in the cupholder and stare straight ahead, looking down at the timer against my better judgment, watching time itself elongate, wondering if I am trapped in a purgatorial hell of my own making, or if I have become so dependent on outside distractions that I shall never find inner peace.
And then I search the magazine rack for old copies of People. OOH! KYLIE JENNER OPENS UP ABOUT WHAT IT’S REALLY LIKE TO BE KYLIE JENNER.
What TV show have the most people died watching? Is it something like General Hospital that is on every day and has a predominantly elderly audience? Or is it something like an SVU that is on all day three times a week? My money’s on The Price Is Right.
COME ON DOWN, MATT. Because studies show that you are mostly likely to die sometime around 11 a.m. in the morning, right when The Price Is Right airs! Who knew that the dulcet tones of Rod Roddy’s voice were actually the universal American death rattle? The last thing you’ll see before entering the Pearly Gates is that big-ass wheel spinning around and around, whisking you away to the ULTIMATE SHOWCASE SHOWDOWN.
What do you do when you’ve been gifted a particularly shitty bottle of Scotch? This stuff tastes like it was infused with leather and then used to clean an ashtray.
If you can’t re-gift it, you can do a couple of things. One: You can cook with it, making Scotch pecan pie and stuff. Is there such a thing as Scotch pecan pie? No? I would eat it regardless. Secondly, you can use it for mixed drinks. Just toss some bitters and something sweet in there, and you can probably drown out the flavor to the point of it being tolerable.
Barring that, your final option is to drink it anyway, which is what I always do, because bad booze beats no booze. I like to save shitty alcohol for when I’m really drunk and have no perception or concern about the quality of whatever paint-thinner I’m putting into my body. You can get rid of a lot of unwanted liquor this way. Take it from me!
[Boots into nearby houseplant.]
If the brain if the world’s best martial-arts fighter was put into the body of your smallest child, could that child kick your ass?
No. My boy is three. I would destroy him. I dare him to try it. Go implant Ronda Rousey’s fighting acumen in your DNA, boy. I’m still not letting you have a cup with an open top.
By the way, children are already kinda good at fighting, because they’re wholly unpredictable, and because they have NO concern whatsoever for their well-being. If my youngest son could walk across hot coals to throw a remote control at me, he would. He gives no fucks. If you put his mentality into the brain of a modern-day fighter, that fighter would scare the life out of me. It would be like fighting a tornado.
If I were to go on a date and put Gold Bond under my armpit, would that count as an antiperspirant? And on a scale of 1-10, how sad would it be if I were to do that?
I’ve done that. It doesn’t work. Whatever magical jiu jitsu Gold Bond does on deodorizing your nutsack, it doesn’t work on your armpits. It just makes your armpits sweaty and pasty. I’ve done a lot of poor ad hoc moves when confronted with a lack of proper hygiene products. I put swiped deodorant ON my taint once, way back when. Again, this did not work. Everything has its place.
Having a 3-year-old, I enjoy introducing her to the Classic Disney animated films I grew up on (Pixar included). Which got me thinking ... which film has the best/most tolerable soundtrack? Gun to my head, I’d say Lion King, but that just be my lion bias showing.
I was gonna say 101 Dalmations (the original animated one)—because it only has a couple of songs, and you don’t have to hear much of them—but then we got the DVD for the kids, and the disc included a special cover of “Cruella De Vil” by Selena Gomez. And I, unfortunately, heard some of it:
That’ll put you off music for a good long time. I’m still recovering.
Anyway, all modern Disney soundtracks follow virtually the same template: a big sweeping overture, a tender ballad about longing, a comic jaunt performed by talking animals, a duet, some annoying anthem about self-empowerment, and then reprises of all five of those songs. As for the best, I vote for Aladdin, because I like the Prince Ali tune. MIGHTY IS HE.
The worst is Pocahontas. “Blue corn moon” my ass.
Email of the week!
I work for a college admissions office, and one of my primary responsibilities is to respond to inquiries I receive from prospective students. My main form of contact is the telephone (these people provide their numbers, requesting to be contacted). However, there are some individuals, when I call them, that answer their phone WITHOUT SAYING ANYTHING. Nothing at all. I hear the phone connect, expect to hear some form of confirmation from this human being—in the neighborhood of a greeting, at least—but ... silence.
I invariably have to say, “Hello?” first to authenticate to whomever pressed “answer” that I wish to initiate a verbal exchange. From my understanding, as an occasional contributor to the well-being of society, you have two choices when you hear your phone ring: Either you ignore the call completely, or you pick up and give a salutation of some kind in your native language. Hell, even a noise that originates from your vocal chords that confirms you’re a living being on the other line would suffice. So, I ask, what kind of person chooses to play this game where they desire to be somewhere in between these two distinct choices? Is there some kind of “keys to success” book wherein lies a chapter titled “Telephone Chicken: Never Talk First”?
That’s the youth of today for you. I say we have Jonathan Papelbon choke all of them until they finally answer the phone correctly.
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.