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How To Pose For A Mugshot

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If you got arrested, what would you go for with your mugshot? Defiant hard-ass? Defiant smiling lunatic? Poker face? Sad? Scared? Remorseful?


Ah, well, I HAVE been arrested, so I know the answer to this. I never actually received a formal mugshot when I was detained seven years ago, but the officer had me pose for a Polaroid, all so he could remember my face in court. I think he should have been forced to identify me from memory. The system is rigged! Diabolical!

Anyway, I was drunk when I was arrested, which means I wasn’t able to put much thought or care into posing for the photo, and you won’t be able to either. When the time comes, you’re gonna be naked and filled to the brim with rich, delicious cocaine. You’re not gonna be thinking clearly when the flash goes off. Also, being arrested is a deeply embarrassing, awful experience. If you’re feeling cocky or defiant at that moment, it’s either because the cocaine hasn’t worn off, or because you’re an incredible dick. Or both!


Personally, I wanted to be as expressionless as possible. I didn’t smile. I didn’t pose. I didn’t want to make any kind of face that would piss off a cop or judge. My face is already quite punchable. No need to enhance the effect it has on others. If a judge sees a guy flipping the bird in his mugshot, he’s probably not gonna go easy on him. All I wanted was to hide, to be invisible.

So I suggest you stand there and do nothing. It’s like a passport photo: You’re gonna look awful no matter what you do, so it’s best if you just get it over with quickly.



I just went and watched game film of Oscar Robertson, and fuck him. What I just witnessed was a pitiful shadow of what decent, watchable basketball would be considered today. This is why I want the Warriors to break the record so bad. Are all old athletes delusional shitbags, or is this a special circumstance?


They’re all delusional. Every single former athlete on the planet believes a) he was the best, and b) his sport peaked with him. These are men with enormous, indestructible egos. They refuse to believe that someone else could ever come along and not only match their feats, but exceed them. I guarantee you that Michael Jordan sits down every night with a fine cigar and a glass of very expensive brown liquor, turns on the NBA, and mutters “PUSSIES” to himself for two straight hours.

In some ways, you need that enormous ego to be a successful pro athlete because the scrutiny is so overwhelming, regardless of whatever era you played in. Everyone in the arena—fans, coaches, opponents—is watching you, and ready to pounce at the slightest sign of weakness. The only way to block that out is to be a HUGE cock. So these guys build themselves up, and then they retire, and that protective ego remains. Oscar Robertson doesn’t want you to forget about him, so he has to remind you that DURRRR IN MY DAY THEY BROUGHT KNIVES ONTO THE COURT DURRRR so that the Warriors or some other Johnny-come-lately team doesn’t erase him from history completely. I think some guys are driven insane by watching their legacies slowly erode over time. This is why Phil Simms talks the way he does.



How many times do you roll up your sleeves? I almost always go twice: fold over on the line of the cuff then once more to lock cuff in place. Still keeps me reasonably warm, but also makes me look like I work harder than I actually do. I think I read somewhere that if you’re going to roll up your sleeves, you have to go all the way, but I say that’s just too much work. And it bothers me that I can rarely get them even and end up looking like a lopsided jackass.


I do three rolls of the cuff. The first one establishes the fold. The second one secures it. And the third one DOUBLE-secures it so that it won’t ever come loose. If I have only two rolls, there’s just one roll standing between me and a floppy, unbuttoned shirtsleeve. I can’t risk it. Also, I like to roll it just past the crook of my elbow, so that the elbow can hinge freely, and so I look like a detective who’s been poring over crime scene photos all night long. THESE VICTIMS ALL HAVE SOMETHING IN COMMON AND I’M JUST NOT SEEING IT.

I can’t do four rolls because my upper arm is too flabby, and a fourth roll would cut off vital circulation. My arms would wither and fall off by happy hour. That fourth roll is dangerous and should only be deployed when you REALLY need to show off that Navy SEALS tattoo.


By the way, there’s nothing better than casting off the jacket and rolling up your sleeves at a formal occasion, like a wedding. You made it through the ceremony and you glad-handed with the old fogies at cocktail hour. But now the time has come to PARTY.

[Jacket off.]

[Sleeves up.]

STAND BACK, PEOPLE. This stuffy affair just got a needed dose of sleeves-up ROWDINESS. Time to go home, old people! Shit is about to get real. Let’s get some KC and the Sunshine Band up in this bitch!



Steph Curry and DeAndre Jordan are having a rather unusual shooting contest: Steph is taking half-court shots, and DeAndre is shooting free throws. Each gets 20 shots. Who ya got?


Do both shots count the same? Jordan is currently making 42.5 percent of his free throws, while Curry is making 46.8 percent of his threes (!!!), many of those coming from long-range. But if Curry has to stand all the way back at half court, and the shots count the same, I think that Jordan probably edges him out.

By the way, here’s a fun stat:


In other words, it might be a better idea to simply let Curry walk to the basket and hit a layup than to have him shoot from that far away. I am now angry that this team plays the majority of its games after my bedtime. If this were the Knicks, they would pre-empt the president to show these games on broadcast television. As much as people lavish praise upon Golden State (except our resident crank Albert Burneko), somehow the praise still isn’t enough. This team is fucking superhuman. This is like if Sidd Finch were REAL. I demand all remaining Warriors game be played on the East Coast during Dad Hours.


I’ve been trying to explain to my teenage kid what it was like to see OJ accused of murder and go on trial, and have been unable to come up with an equivalent example using today’s stars. An incredibly accomplished athlete who retired about 15 years prior to the incident but stuck around in a prominent sideline reporter role (meaning all the guys out there knew and loved him), who then transitioned to a mildly successful film career and a fantastically successful advertising career (which means your average person knew and liked him). Who would that be today?


Someone on the Deadspin staff said Shaq would be the proper modern equivalent, but I don’t know if I agree with that. OJ Simpson was a football legend back when the NFL wasn’t anywhere as big as it is now. Then he became a sideline reporter, pitchman, and bit movie actor. (And not without talent! Even now, his Naked Gun appearances are hysterical.) He was undeniably famous, but he wasn’t Ali or anything. Also, I was born three years before OJ’s playing days were over, so he really didn’t mean much to me as an athlete. He was just a standard B-list famous person. It was probably a bigger deal to older people, so the closest modern equivalent would probably be Michael Strahan … someone whose main career has been over for a while, but retains a visible presence that now stretches out across varying demographics.

So … let’s say Michael Strahan decides to murder two people and goes on the lam in a big white SUV. (NOTE: I have met him, and this seems unlikely … but that’s what people thought about OJ!) Will you be shocked? Yes. Riveted? Yes. Would it pre-empt the NBA Finals like OJ did? Eh. They’d probably just move the game to TruTV or something. Will it be as big as if, say, Michael Jordan had done it? Or the Pope? NO. No, it would not. In fact, you will sit there watching Bronco Chase 2.0 and say to yourself, “Well sure, it’s a big deal, but it’s no Barkley double homicide!” In a way, OJ Simpson’s infamy distorted his prior fame and amplified it. His arrest was a big deal, but then people made it an even bigger deal by constantly reminding you what a big fucking deal it was. And that is why we need only our MOST famous citizens to go on more murderous rampages from now on.



If Steph Curry played single-handedly against a below-average high school basketball team, who would win?


I wanna say the high school team would win because it’s, you know, FIVE guys. But it would probably be close because the five high school kids would be awed and terrified by Curry, and would be shy about smacking the ball away from him. My 10-year-old plays basketball, and it’s amazing how timid kids can be about going for the ball. It’s right there! The other kid is barely dribbling it. TAKE IT. But they don’t. They just let them go. It’s maddening.

Anyway, a team of high school schlubs might be similarly cowed, at least in the beginning. Curry could get off some shots. And on offense, the high school team would have uncontested shots, but might blow a lot of them due to nerves and/or general incompetence. Then they would finally start going for the ball and eventually win. I’m dead certain I have gotten this scenario entirely wrong.



Why are there commercials for Reese’s, Snickers, M&Ms, Skittles, Hershey’s, etc.? Everyone already knows the candy, the products don’t change (unless they introduce some weird spinoff flavor, which aren’t usually advertised anyway), the prices only rise or stay the same, and no one needs to be reminded that the candy exists, because they walk by them every time they check out of any store. Seems like a waste of company money if you ask me.


Ah, but it isn’t! I know this because I worked on the Hershey’s ad account, and there was a direct correlation between sales and advertising. When the company showed ads, the sales went up. When they stopped, sales went down. You might think those brands have 100 percent awareness and are essentially indestructible, but no! No, it turns out that if you run an ad for Snickers, someone somewhere is like, “Hey, that sounds pretty good right about now!” And if you don’t run any ads for Snickers, the brand tends to lapse into semi-obscurity. Like Bit-O-Honey! When’s the last time you ate a Bit-O-Honey? They never advertise Bit-O-Honey, so now it just sits at the bottom of the drug store bagged-candy aisle, alone and unloved. Poor Bit-O-Honey.

Distribution is also affected by advertising. So you want to put your butt-flavored candy in my store. And I ask, “Who knows about this butt-flavored candy? Are you advertising it?” And then you say, “Nah, that’s for suckers!” Well, then I’m gonna tell you to get the fuck out of my store, because I’m not stocking your small-time poop candy if you’re not putting any weight behind it. And if people can’t see your product anywhere, they can’t buy it. This is probably more information about candy sales than you wanted. I’m sorry.


Anyway, the point is that advertising works on a basic level when you have something to sell and need people to know it (still) exists. Where advertising becomes a horrible, shit-eating monolith is when it tries to manipulate you or outright lies to you, which is the bulk of most advertising now. It used to be so sweet and innocent, I tell you. It used to be about the ADS, MANNNNNNNNNN.



My wife just made some amazing Rice Krispie Treats, the kind with extra un-melted marshmallows scattered throughout. This got me wondering: What’s the best way to enjoy marshmallows? On top of hot chocolate? Melted into crispy treats? Toasted for s’mores? Right out of the bag? Dammit, I love marshmallows.


It’s amazing how much better a fresh, homemade Rice Krispie Treat is compared to the wrapped ones they sell at the store. It’s all sticky and buttery and crispy and OH GOD I’LL KILL YOU ALL FOR ONE. Anyway, here’s how I’d rank marshmallow uses:

1. S’mores. Even when you fuck up the s’more (this happens every time), it’s still amazing.


2. Rice Krispie Treats.

3. Cereal. Cereal marshmallows aren’t real marshmallows because, obviously, real marshmallows would destroy any cereal by turning it into a wet glop of shit. They’re their own thing. But they’re still delicious, and, in fact, they should be more prevalent in society at large. Why can’t I sprinkle them on birthday cake, hmmm? Think about it.


4. Thanksgiving sweet potato casserole. The only time when eating something with marshmallows in it actually counts as a non-dessert course.

5. Mallomars. Mallomars are good because the entire marshmallow is enrobed, which means the risk of getting marshmallow snot all over my fingers is lessened.


6. Hot chocolate. I gotta tell you, I’m fine with whipped cream in my cocoa instead. Otherwise I’m trying to drink around 16 life rafts. And kids just fish the wet marshmallows out, eat them separately, and then don’t drink the rest of the cocoa. It’s bullshit.

7. Fluff.

8. Plain. Plain marshmallows are garbage. They have skin! I don’t want my candy to have skin.



I think that if you take a shower at night and then put on a fresh pair of boxers to sleep in, you’re free to wear that pair to work the next day. Am I wrong in thinking this is acceptable behavior?


My stance is that you change your boxers after showering, and it doesn’t matter when that shower is. So if you shower in the morning, that’s when the new boxers go on. If you shower at night, then you change them and then go to sleep and work in them the next morning. It’s a 24-hour cycle before you sub in a new pair. Obviously, there are special circumstances that warrant an emergency change: summer heat, dribbling, swamp-ass, etc. But if there’s no urgent reason to change your undies, I think it’s okay to do it once a day. Otherwise you’d be doing laundry all the time, and that’s unacceptable. So 24 hours for a pair of boxers is fine.


If you could assemble the objectively six best basketball players on earth—five starters and a sixth man—and fill the rest of the team with above-average middle school players, could they make the playoffs?


Didn’t Cleveland already prove this a year ago? ZINGGGGGGGGGGGG.

Anyway, your squad could and would probably make the playoffs. They’d have to avoid injury, because they’d obviously never play any of the middle school benchwarmers unless someone got hurt. The problem is that injuries would be inevitable if guys are logging 40-48 minutes every single game. So what would happen is that the team would crush everyone at the beginning of the season, lose a few guys to injury, and then hang on for dear life to a playoff spot after they’re forced to play little Payzden out on the perimeter for six straight games.


There are plenty of teams out there that have absolutely no depth whatsoever, and they can manage to get by. But if your benched is stocked with literal seventh graders, you’re dead meat the second one of them has to actually play. You could only afford to have one adult guy hurt at a time.


My wife says winter is the first season of the year; I say spring. You have to have ALL four months in a row to be first. Tell her she’s wrong.


It’s spring, because spring marks the beginning of so much: birds arriving, grass growing, people getting really horny for one another, etc. Winter is an end: a dull and lifeless slog where everything is bare and fallow. It’s death, and death always comes last.

But let’s be honest: Winter officially starts just 10 days before the New Year, so you have to sit through nearly ALL of winter before you get to experience this so-called “first” season. What a load. They should make New Year’s Eve TODAY to commemorate the actual renewal of life. As it stands now, the New Year occurs at the absolute unhappiest time of year. It doesn’t feel like the beginning of anything. It feels like you’re being condemned. WHY EVEN HAVE YEARS, MAN? Spring is first, but spring needs to hurry the fuck up and get here.



My roommate eats his chicken nuggets with mayonnaise. Do I have permission to murder him?




What percentage of marriage proposals get a “no” in real life? I know it’s seen in movies and TV all the time, but I’d say it has to be less than 5 percent in real life, right?


I found a Daily Mail article that said 25 percent of women had turned down a marriage proposal at least once, which sounded like an insane figure to me, especially since the Daily Mail is infamous for running bullshit. So then I rooted around, and every other article listing a percentage sourced that stupid Daily Mail article. BOOOOOOOO.

My guess is that the real figure, at least here in the US, is probably around 10 percent. Think of how many drunken, ill-advised proposals have been offered throughout history, just in Nevada alone! Even though guys talk a good game about resisting marriage, a lot of them get carried away and are like DARLENE THIS KENNY CHESNEY CONCERT HAS BEEN SO SPECIAL … FUCK IT, WILL YOU MARRY ME?! Think of how many teenage proposals there are. Teenage boys are fucking nuts. They’d marry anyone for a free blowjob.


Not every proposal is a carefully planned, not-so-surprising betrothal between 28-year-old college grads. Men propose while drunk. They propose while high. They propose in the MIDDLE of sex. They propose in the middle of arguments, too! Sometimes a proposal acts as a convenient romantic gesture men will throw out, heedless of the fact that it’s a fucking lifetime offer. “If I just propose, she’ll agree to go to Five Guys instead of that salad joint.” So yeah, a lot of those impulse proposals are gonna get swatted away. Ten percent or more!


Say you’re on an inside seat in a movie theater or airplane or sporting event, and you need to leave, walking by a number of sitting people with your crotch at face level. What is the proper direction to turn? Is it better manners to put your ass in their face, or to offer them a close encounter with your pole?


The butt. You gotta give them the butt. You turn sideways just a bit, so that it’s clear you’re trying to limit butt contact. But that still beats facing them and giving them the Chippendale’s move.

By the way, I’ve noticed on airplanes that some people have absolutely NO butt awareness. They throw that butt around without a care as to who or what is in the way. I have had a butt resting on my shoulder, like I’m a goddamn chair. And either these people don’t know about their butts invading my space, or worse, they know but they don’t care. I’m getting a little bit sick of these butt terrorists. We need to have a NO BUTTS light that flashes to remind people to keep their butts to themselves.



I saw Terry Bradshaw speak at some fundraiser in town six months ago. He does not get around well at all with a pretty severe limp that just looks painful. Since then, I’ve noticed that when he is in TV, they never have him walk or let him move around. The way I see it, there are two possible reasons for this: a) He is too proud to be shown staggering around or b) the NFL, in an attempt to hide what the game does to its players’ bodies, has demanded FOX not allow him to move around. I think it’s B, but maybe I’m a conspiracy theorist. What’s your take?


Eh, I think it’s just common sense (and if memory serves, I’ve seen Terry out on the fake studio Astroturf on many occasions). If it hurts him to move, why would he WANT to walk around for a segment? I wouldn’t. Also, Terry Bradshaw has always been pretty open about his physical and mental maladies in his post-playing career, so I don’t think pride factors into it. If he wants to limit hurtful movement, FOX is probably more than happy to accommodate him.

But that’s just Bradshaw I’m talking about. Every other ex-athlete on a TV set is a delusional, crippled nutcase. I went to Radio Row at the Super Bowl once and saw Mike Ditka, and Ditka looked like a fucking walking corpse. I was genuinely concerned looking at him. He’s gonna drop dead at any moment. But they’re not putting THAT Ditka on camera. They’re gonna spray him in makeup and sit him upright in a chair and let him shine his Super Bowl ring at the camera. TV people want you to look your best, and that, serendipitously, helps the NFL’s image as well. They don’t have to order the networks to make their ex-players look strong and healthy. That’s all a given anyway.


Email of the week!


I had been dating this girl for a couple of months and decided to book a table at PF Chang’s for Valentine’s Day. (Judge away: It was fancy for a poor college kid.) We get to the restaurant, and when the hostess asked for our name, she gets a concerned look on her face and tells me she needs to get the manager. I’m perplexed to what the problem could be, but I assume it’s nothing big, so I just chat up my girlfriend for a couple of minutes. The manager comes over and asks me, “Did you tell your mom that your girlfriend broke up with you this weekend and she could take your reservation?” To which I respond ...”Uh, what? My mom doesn’t even live in the area. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

I can see a hint of rage in the manager’s eye, and she tells me that a woman came in and said that she was Casey’s mom, and he wanted to give up his table reservation because he was dumped over the weekend. Obviously this was not the case. She apologizes profusely and gives us the next table. I thought it was funny, but when I started telling my friends this story, they thought I should have confronted the woman. In retrospect, it may have been fun to walk up to the woman and ask, “Enjoying my table, Mom?” I think I did the right thing by letting the weird moment slide. I was with a relatively new girlfriend, and I know I would have made myself look stupid if I tried talking to the woman that stole our reservation.


You should have found that woman and dumped her lettuce wraps into her purse. Who steals a reservation? There’s a special place for you in hell for people who would ever dare to do such a thing.

Drew Magary writes for Deadspin. He’s also a correspondent for GQ. Follow him on Twitter @drewmagary. You can also pre-order Drew’s second novel, The Hike, here.


Lead image by Sam Woolley.

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