Time for your weekly edition of the Deadspin Funbag. Got something on your mind? Email the Funbag. Today, we’re covering March Madness, ugly foods, boogers, and more.
Before we get deep into the bowels of the Funbag, one quick note: I’m out next week on Spring Break with my kids. This will not be like your Spring Break. Your Spring Break will be in Lake Havasu surrounded by fruity drinks and horny twentysomethings. I, on the other hand, will be stuck in Virginia traffic yelling at people. That’s my fate, and I have accepted it. So no Funbag next week.
Now, your letters:
I will go up to 50 feet out of my way to pee outside on a nice day. This is assuming no one in the neighborhood is peeking over the back fence. Where are the best places to urinate outside?
You’ve come to the right place, sir. As a connoisseur of outdoor urination, I have peed in a great many outdoor spaces, sometimes legally! HEAVEN. Anyway, the key to a good outdoor piss is security. You want to enjoy the fresh air and piss freely without having to worry about neighbors and/or law enforcement catching you in the act, which ALWAYS happens whenever you try to pull it off. Nothing worse than letting loose in a seemingly secluded area only to have a fucking peloton of bikers appear from out of nowhere and pass right in front of your dick. That’s the worst. So here are the best and worst places to get the job done.
1. Outdoor shower. You already know that outdoor showers are the fucking best, especially when beer is involved. Well, as a bonus, you can piss your heart out. Watch it splash down on the wooden slats! Piss on a nearby spiderweb in the corner! There’s nothing you can’t do with your piss in an outdoor shower.
2. Ocean. Everyone can see you, but no one knows you’re actively pissing in the water, which only makes it a bigger turn-on. The only reason the ocean isn’t tops on this list is because sometimes you have to pee in the ocean even though you don’t want to go in, because the water is fucking freezing. Or you will go into the ocean, come out, dry off, and then realize you have to go back in to piss. So you wade in waist-deep, only now everyone knows you’re only there to piss, so you gotta wade in deeper to complete the charade, and then a big-ass wave comes and destroys you. That’s not a good ocean piss.
3. High school playing field, under cover of darkness. If you listen closely, you can hear a wistful Craig Finn song playing in the background any time you do this. I love it.
4. Off a boat! This depends largely on the company you’re keeping. But let’s assume you’re in the middle of a lake with no one else around. That’s a real highlight of any fishing trip with Dad.
5. Golf course. We’re among friends, right? The rest of your Duke alumni BUDDIES can watch your back while you do your business behind the 14th hole. O ho ho, if only the club regents could see how naughty you’re being right now! YOU’RE STICKING IT TO THE SNOBS, BRO!
(NOTE: Every golfer thinks they’re the slobs in Caddyshack when, in reality, they’re actually the snobs.)
6. Tailgate parking lot. Move this up three slots if you’re a Bills fan. Those people don’t worry much about being caught urinating in public, on camera, directly into their own sunroof.
7. Deep in the forest. Pissing in the woods can be pleasant unless you’re actively using the woods to shield yourself from public view and you don’t want to go too deep into the forest because it’s muddy, or because there are thorny brambles all over the place. Also, it sucks when you piss against a tree, and it either splashes back against the stiff bark or, worse, goes running right back toward your feet. I need a nice, flat, pristine, abandoned forest to piss in. That would be optimal.
8. Alleyway. Almost the worst, but not quite!
9. Side of the highway. Yep. This one’s the worst. There should be a bathroom at every mile of every highway. I see no significant expense involved in this.
Whenever I take an Uber alone and the driver seems fairly normal, I sit in the front. Is this weird? Am I breaking acceptable driver-passenger protocol?
It’s fine. Unlike a taxicab, your standard UberX is a 2004 Toyota Corolla that was never designed for hired transit. The backseat sucks. If you have a bad back (like I do), sitting in the back of that car can be agony, so it’s worth asking your Uber driver to move his grow-house business plan out of the shotgun seat so that you can have a comfortable ride. It’s not like sitting in the backseat and sucking on a five-cent miniature water bottle is gonna help you avoid talking to him.
By the way, on an unrelated note, I would gladly pony up an additional two-dollar surcharge to guarantee a female Uber driver. I wouldn’t even think twice about it. That’s a quality price for some measure of insurance against being dismembered and eaten.
What would happen if the NCAA blatantly left out the best team in the country from the tournament... like Kentucky last year or North Carolina this year?
I think the outrage would be so pronounced that they would hold an emergency meeting to correct the mistake. Even in 2016, when no one backs down from anything anymore, the public outcry would be so ferocious that the NCAA—as slow-moving and dumb as they are—would have to exercise some manner of damage control and correct the problem by shoehorning UNC back into the tournament in the clumsiest, least satisfying manner possible. You can’t take OUT a team that’s already made the draw to accommodate them. They’d have to force some Podunk 10th seed to play them on the Tuesday or Wednesday before with the two other play-in games. And then THAT team would piss and moan and shit a brick.
And then every other team in the region would also complain because they might have to play UNC earlier than they prefer. It would be a glorious clusterfuck, and it would, once and for all, prove my theory that the selection committee spends roughly 10 minutes organizing the field, and the rest of their time behind closed doors drinking beer and eating sandwiches. I know that’s what I would do if I ran it.
Would you rather make the Big Dance and get mercilessly crushed or win the entire NIT? I mean, I feel like winning a tournament like that, even if it is “second tier,” is pretty sweet.
Nope. Not a chance. Name last year’s NIT winner. See? No one gives a shit. I’d wipe my ass with the NIT trophy just for the chance to be in the tournament and lose on a last-second buzzer-beater to a Louisiana directional school in front of 5,000 neutral Spokanians. That’s the big-time.
I used to play JV football, and I remember HATING having to play JV, even though I deserved to be there, and even though you should just be happy to have the chance to play. SO PURE! But fuck all that. No teenager wants to be second fiddle. How will Sherry McHotpants ever notice me if I’m not on the varsity team, dammit? Every NIT game is underscored with the cruel truth that you are NOT playing in an NCAA tourney game. I bet they don’t even get to stay in Manhattan for the finals. They probably have to sleep in a Motel 6 in Secaucus. The NIT is bullshit.
What food has the worst appearance-to-taste ratio? I was thinking about this as I was eating eel sushi. Eel sushi is fucking delicious. Eels as an animal are just about the least appetizing looking thing I can imagine. They look like someone glued googly-eyes on a snake with fetal alcohol syndrome.
Well, wait, are we talking about how the food looks in its cooked state, or in original plant or animal form? Because the average animal isn’t all that appetizing to look at. Cows have droopy asses and smell like barn shit. Pigs look like jock itch on four hooves. All fish smell like old dumpsters. It takes a lot of preparation to make a dead animal look presentable for consumption. (By contrast, many fruits and vegetables are delightfully colorful and appealing.)
So, instead of focusing on the food in its original form, let’s talk about prepared food that often looks genuinely unappetizing despite being tasty:
1. Pâté. It’s grey organ paste and sometimes has unidentifiable chunks of stuff in it. DELICIOUS.
2. Chili. You and I both know chili is delicious, but if you wipe away your own personal history with it, it objectively looks like horse diarrhea. And not just the Skyline kind. Any chili looks like it’s already been through the digestive tract.
3. A Baby Ruth bar. DOODIE!
4. Creamed spinach. One of the best sides for steak also happens to look like a bag of salad greens someone left on a porch for 80 days.
5. Creamed onions. Creamed anything, really. I’m glad they don’t make creamed pâté.
6. Beef broth. Chicken broth smells warm and soothing. Beef broth looks like a contaminated water supply.
7. Industrial cafeteria turkey gravy. You know that pale, gloppy shit they serve in 1990s college dining halls? It’s terrific.
8. Cookie Crisp cereal milk.
If NBA games were played on a court the size of a soccer field, would it make the games much more awesome or much less awesome, and what do you think the average final score would be?
It would make basketball much worse, because without a confined space, you couldn’t play any press. Defenses would just hang back and wait for offenses to close in, and they would have to, because there’s no point in shooting from 90 feet away. Even Steph Curry couldn’t hit that shit. One of the reasons that basketball is fun to watch is because you have 10 uncommonly large men forced to negotiate around each around other in a relatively tight space. That forces you to be creative, to pass the ball and/or take to the air. I don’t wanna watch a basketball game where Kyrie Irving is free to dribble to fucking Mars and back.
Also, ever watch basketball in a large stadium? It sucks. There’s a reason everyone complains about the Final Four being held in a stupid football stadium every year. I went to one of the first Timberwolves exhibition games in the old Metrodome. Every seat was lousy. The only way you could make a super-sized NBA court work is if you a) added more players to the floor and b) made the hoop much, much bigger. And even then, you’d probably end up cutting scores in half and turning the game into some kind of bizarre, shitty form of soccer. I’m all for it.
Suppose you could see a highly anticipated movie (like Captain America 3 or the new Star Wars) three to four weeks before general release. It would cost the same as other first-run movies, but here’s the catch: You have to watch it interspersed with ads. Same as when you watch an old classic like Jurassic Park or The Rock on Sunday afternoons. A two-hour movie is stretched out to three and a half, and the ad breaks increase in frequency as you get closer to the end of the movie. Is it worth it?
No. No fucking way. I’m older now. I can wait. With the exception of The Force Awakens, I don’t have anywhere near the fanboy lust that I used to have. I can bide my time for three weeks drinking straight whiskey and cursing Twitter spoilers and wait for the shit to come out ad-free on opening day.
I barely get to the movies as is. The fact that they’re expensive, and require a babysitter, and have 20 pre-show ads that elicit audible sighs from the audience, and the fact that some asshole will be texting in the seat next to me … that all conspires to make the idea unappetizing. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve seen a trailer, gotten excited for the movie, watched average reviews roll in on opening day, and reverted to going, “Eh, I’ll wait for the DVD.” It’s just not that urgent once you hit your thirties. No way I’m going if there are 90 minutes of Aquafresh ads interspersed throughout. Get me the hell out of there.
My office of lawyers has been debating this question for a week: Does cereal qualify as soup?
No. Stop it. It’s fucking cereal. They don’t serve you a cup of Lucky Charms consommé at the ski lodge.
What type of nuclear bunker does the Pope have, if he has one at all?
I assume there is an entire labyrinth of fallout shelters and hidden graves underneath the Vatican, where the Pope can stash all the secret priest wives, along with all the photos that prove Jesus had dreadlocks. I bet it goes down into the core of the fucking Earth. At the ninth circle of the Vatican catacombs is the talking dragon sitting on a pile of gold. Underneath that is the official Papal Fallout Shelter, with 100 years’ supply of canned goods and a fully sustainable indoor sheep farm. And free cable.
Is it stealing to ask for a cup for water at Chipotle and fill it up with the carbonated “seltzer” water as opposed to just regular water? I say absolutely not, it’s fair game. My friend says it’s stealing. In my book, if it has a little gray pull-down tab, then it’s free. If you have to push the cup against the black lever thing, it costs money. My friend is a loser, right?
As a card-carrying seltzer whore and someone who now believes plain water is as SOUR AS POISON (you’d spit it out, you would!), I will admit that I’ve filled the free water thimble with seltzer on a few occasions. But it’s probably not something you should do regularly, because that carbonation costs a restaurant extra in CO2 cartridges. I once looked into getting a SodaStream and balked at the price. So it’s not fair for me to go around bogarting another man’s carbon dioxide supply.
By the way, not every soda fountain has a plain-soda-water tab, which SUCKS. That should be mandatory. Also, the soda fountain should be out in front of the counter so that I can access it. Whenever I ask the McDonald’s lady for plain seltzer, she looks at me like I just asked for the Easter Bunny to appear in the flesh. They’re not used to someone ordering a drink that does not contain 86,000 grams of corn syrup. All I want is some seltzer and to not feel like an asshole about it. I’ll pay for it from now on, I swear.
Say an asteroid is heading for Earth large enough to wipe us all out. The country that nukes it and saves all of humanity is North Korea. Does this change things?
For a week, sure. For seven whole days, we’d all be eternally grateful to Kim Jong Un for saving us, and then he would go and do something dickish, and we would go right back to hating him.
There is nothing, in this day and age, that is immune to backlash. I don’t give a shit how much goodwill you’ve built up. It always has an expiration date. If Jennifer Lawrence can have a backlash, you bet your ass that the DPRK’s “We Saved You All” gala would get dumped on. Besides, do we REALLY want to be saved from that asteroid? I, for one, would be livid at Kim for making me endure the rest of the 2016 election cycle. Thanks a lot, butthole.
I was waiting in line for a one-stall bathroom the other day. I was next to go in, as the person waiting before me had entered about 30 seconds before I got there. After about five minutes, I coughed loudly, just so the person would know that someone was waiting. After about 10 minutes, I coughed again, and also loudly said to the person behind me, “Yeah, someone’s in there.” At what point is it fair to say a person has exceeded the time limit in the stall?
You can’t rush them. I know that’s unfair, but imagine sitting down to take a shit and having some impatient prick start banging on the door after five minutes. You’d be homicidal, because no one should ever disturb another person mid-shit. Once you’re in that stall, it’s yours. You have entered a poopy wormhole where time and space are meaningless, and all that exists are you and your disgorging bowels. It’s a wonderful moment, and cannot be disturbed.
The only way you can bang on that door is if you’re convinced that person isn’t shitting, but is shooting up and/or fucking someone in there. By all means, call the fire department if that’s the case. Otherwise, you gotta find relief elsewhere. It sucks, but you’d want the same courtesy extended your way.
Is it okay to pick your nose in public if you use a tissue over your finger? Kinda like a little booger condom.
Yeah, but do your best to disguise it as a nose blow. I like to do a token nose-blow and then hold the wad of tissue over my nose as I dig around. That follow-up dig is the real booger hunt. Frankly, blowing my nose never does anything. Those boogers stay firmly rooted. You need manpower to extract them. It’s like trying to move boulder with a leaf-blower.
Have you ever been sitting at a stop light after a long day at work, and listened to the clicking of your blinker while waiting for the light to change? In that moment, when the clicking of your blinker aligns perfectly with the turn-signal flashing intermittently from the car in front of you, the world is at peace. Order, harmony, and a glorious sense of relief washes over me for that moment. Then it all crashes down as the two fall out of sync. Am I a psychopath for enjoying this insignificant moment, or do other people get this feeling and also enjoy it?
Of course they do. Volkswagen made one of the greatest ads in history based on that:
Okay, so those are wipers and not turn signals, but the principle is the same. Found rhythms are always fun. I like to click on a pen in rhythm and then imagine I’m in the studio with Radiohead and Nigel Godrich, and they seize upon my pen clicking as the foundation of a cool new avant garde track. “Drew, wot you doin’ wif dat pen? Dat’s a right banger, dat is!” There’s nothing Radiohead loves more than not playing real instruments.
By the way, as much as Collin enjoys the rhythmic stylings of the turn signal, there’s nothing worse than pulling up to a turn, putting on the signal, realizing you turned it on too early, and then sitting there while the fucking thing clicks over and over, torturing you like a drip of water to the skull. Sometimes I turn the signal off and wait until the light has changed to turn it back on. I’m in an ONLY lane. You all know I’m turning, right? No need to be redundant.
What would happen if Obama went 63-0 in his bracket and won every game? Would that be the official sign that the Illuminati exists and he wanted to show its power in his final year in office? And what would be the progression of the American public freakout after each round?
If he nailed the first weekend, I would already be highly suspicious, because as a sports fan, it is my right to believe that anyone who defeats me in any gambling contest is cheating somehow. (This is especially true whenever I play Daily Fantasy … everyone else on DraftKings is clearly a rogue programmer.) Clearly, Obama conspired with the Department of Defense to build a time machine and then used that time machine to go into the future to figure out the perfect bracket, then came back to TODAY so that he could win the pool and give all the money to the Cubans. OPEN YOUR FUCKING EYES, SHEEPLE. By the time he nailed the Final Four, Trump fanboys would be marching on the Capitol with billy clubs.
The NCAA is running a public-service campaign during the tournament this year called “Don’t Bet on It.” I realized this when I logged into my CBS bracket and saw the logo and was extremely confused, because I had just Venmo’d buy-in fees for several different betting pools and am flying to Vegas Thursday morning. Is this public-service campaign the biggest load of “wink-wink” hogshit any sports organization has ever tried to pull, or does the NFL still lead with their anti-domestic violence push?
No, the NCAA’s is the most cynical and ludicrous, because gambling IS the business plan. That’s a billion-dollar enterprise thanks to office pools, and you’re telling me not to bet on it? Fuck you. That’s even worse than Budweiser asking me to drink responsibly.
Kind of a lame question: My wife and I disagree about our kids watching TV. You’re around my age and have kids ... what’s your stance? I say it’s harmless within reason, and she says that kids should only watch around 30 minutes a day tops, and more amounts to lazy parenting, which I think is borderline Amish. We all need a second to dick around without having to constantly watch your kids, right? I’m right ...
Two hours is the recommended maximum, even though the ideal situation is having the children watch NO screens at all. In a perfect world, they get up and feed the chickens and say their prayers and then help with the chores and then spend the afternoon home from school practicing the violin, sewing trousers, and devouring books. “Oh, Papa, read me another Tolstoy epic!” Shit like that.
But that’s not realistic. It’s 2016. Sometimes it’s good to have the kids mellow the fuck out on screens so that you can do your own business, and them it’s even BETTER to let the time slip by while you’re enjoying yourself, only to realize they’ve been playing Drive Ahead for three hours and have literally had their brains rewired in the process. Not your fault, I say! I say that a loose two hours is acceptable, and then triple it on weekends.
By the way, more important than limiting screen time is making sure your kid can play on their own. Like, if they can play with toys without always needing you right there, that’s the big thing. If they can’t be alone for one goddamn second, then it’s a problem.
Email of the week!
Okay so let’s say it’s the future, and science is at the point that cloning is possible and perfected for humans and it’s like a normal thing now, like they come out the exact same, looks, age, personality, intelligence, everything, exactly like they were before they passed away or before whatever caused them to pass away got started. If I died and my significant other lived and she could get me cloned for free, all she probably has to do is fill out some government forms online or some shit, I’m not sure why the government runs the cloning in the future, but they do, probably to enforce some “a person can only be cloned once ever”-type rule.
What will be the appropriate recourse in the future? Does she not get me cloned and just deal with losing a loved one similarly to how we do now and go on? Does she get me cloned, and just go on with her normal life doing everything the same way we used to, always knowing I was like created in a lab with some DNA and some stem cells or something? Does she stay with Clone Me? Does she have sex with Clone Me? My significant other said she would have me cloned and stay with me and have sex with me, but she wouldn’t want me to clone her.
You can’t marry the clone. I’ve seen science-fiction movies. The clone will kill you.
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 pre-order Drew’s second novel, The Hike, through here.
Lead image by Sam Woolley.
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