Time for your weekly edition of the Deadspin Funbag. Got something on your mind? Email the Funbag. Today, we’re covering yogurt, 5-pointers, poop, sauces, and more.
I killed a bumblebee the other day. It was constantly buzzing around my front door, and I had a tennis racket in my hand, so I laid down an absolutely WICKED forehand and nailed the fucker. It got caught in the strings and everything. I was kinda proud of my handiwork … UNTIL four other bumblebees suddenly appeared around the door, asking questions. I don’t know how they knew I killed the other bumblebee (except for maybe the fact that I had a dead one stuck in a tennis racket), but I swear they KNEW. They were investigating. Looking. Searching. I was fucking horrified. I fled the premises immediately. I informed my wife so that the bees wouldn’t claim any of my children as retribution.
And you know what? It’s all my fault. That bee didn’t try to sting me. It was just flying around, looking for a few flowers to suck on. He wasn’t interfering with my business. I drew first blood. I instigated it. I was the cruel tyrant who sentenced a poor bee to death simply for getting in my way (for real, he was in front of the door all the fucking time). I should have left well enough alone so that the bees and I could live in harmony. Now … now, there is tension. I feel it. Do not fuck with bees. Even if you win, they’ll get in your head.
Now, your letters:
Is mustard a sauce? I say yes (as does Merriam-Webster), but I have a bunch of crazy friends who are adamant that a “condiment” is different from a “sauce.” Are my friends crazy?
A condiment IS different from a sauce, by definition. That means that some sauces, like barbecue sauce (sauce is right in the name!) are condiments, and not all condiments (like, say, pickles) are sauces. This is why we have different words for different things.
But that’s not a strong sauce take now, is it? You came here for BOLD answers, not a bunch of Klosterman-esque, flip-floppy bullshit. And so I will tell you, right here and now, that mustard IS a sauce. That’s right, motherfucker. Mustard is a thick liquid that adds “moisture and flavor,” as the official definition goes. Sounds pretty saucy to me! No one said it was an ideal sauce, but it’s a sauce all the same, just as ketchup is a sauce and (GUHHHHHHH) mayo is a sauce. People put ketchup on pasta, you know. Horrible, awful people. So mustard counts. It’s a sauce AND a condiment. It’s a bi-curious ingredient.
By the way, I put this question to the Deadspin staff and immediately regretted it, because this is the kind of stupid argument that can waste HOURS of your life. Our own Leslie Horn said that she thought salt and pepper were condiments. ARE THEY NOT SPICES?! I would suggest you step away from this kind of food flame war before you even start.
Does Aaron Hernandez’s Twitter just stay up forever? Will/can Twitter remove it? Is there a clause in the user agreement that Twitter can take down your account if you’re a murdering psychopath?
I asked a Twitter spokesman about this, and here is their reply:
Our terms of service do not prohibit an incarcerated user from accessing his or her account.
So there you go. Twitter has the right to shut down your account for any reason, which is a scary thought, because if they randomly deleted my feed, I would react as if I had lost a child. Anyway, I think Twitter is right to keep Hernandez’s feed alive. It has news value, and what if he wants to tweet from jail? I don’t know if jails allow such things (they really shouldn’t), but on the off-chance Warden Clubface decides Tweeting is okay, I think I’d be VERY interested to see Hernandez tweet about the quality of the Walpole Jail creamed corn.
In theory, Twitter only shuts down feeds for being spammy (they are doing a poor job) or for being hateful or stalker-y (again, they are doing a poor job). They police feeds based strictly on the content of the feed itself, not the person operating it. This is good, because everyone who uses Twitter is a fucking sociopath. That is why Dzhokhar Tsarnaev’s Twitter feed remains active to this day. Twitter isn’t in the justice business. YOU HEAR THAT, GOODELL?! Besides, they want as many users as humanly possible, so that they can go to Wall Street and be like, “We added 70 million arsonists to our network just last month! MONEY PLEEZ,” and then they get their money. So if you’re a potential triple-murderer, you can keep on Tweeting so long as you don’t, like, say mean things about the new Ghostbusters cast.
(By the way, if you die, Twitter will remove your account at the request of family members, but ONLY after you give them a short obituary. Even in death, Twitter needs to keep its user base high.)
How much money do we feel like Aaron Hernandez has left? With the expensive legal counsel—and the way he appeared to spend money on booze, rental cars, weed, etc. prior to the arrest—is it still even in the seven figures range?
Doubtful. Even though Hernandez’s last contract guaranteed him nearly $16 million, the Patriots, as far as I know, are still working to recoup a hefty portion of the money they already paid him. It’s altogether possible that the Patriots will owe him money this year, even as he rots in jail as a convicted murderer. Either way, it won’t matter. All this legal wrangling will only serve to deplete his earnings further. Plus he’s got more criminal charges against him, not to mention civil suits possibly pending. Legal Hell is its own second form of punishment in the American judicial system. Not only do you get thrown in jail, but you also get paperwork. They really know how to rub it in.
Anyway, he’ll be broke by the end of this. Lawyers always pick the carcass clean. They don’t leave meat on the bone. This is why I really hope I never murder anyone.
Where does ketchup belong relative to one’s French fries? Zigzagged across the top of them, or in a blob on the side?
Blob. I don’t want ketchup on my fingers. What do I look like, an animal? Nothing worse than digging through a trough of ketchup-soaked fries. I feel like a coroner. You squirt the blob near the fries, and then you dip as needed. Sometimes, and this is unorthodox, I also dip my BURGER into the blob. That’s right. Gives me extra coverage for every bite. FIGHT ME.
Is it possible to blow your nose and not open it up and see what came out? I have to know what kind of gross mucus was living in my nose. If Kleenex would make a clear tissue, I would pay at least an extra $3 for a box.
I have to look if I know something special came out. Like, if I feel a chunk getting blown out, and there’s blood seeping out of the tissue, I usually have to open it up to make sure I didn’t accidentally blow my own brains out. But if it’s just some clear, everyday snot? Not needed.
Sometimes, I don’t wanna look. Like, sometimes I’ll be sick, and I’ll open up the tissue, and inside there will be a VISION OF HORROR. I won’t check on subsequent blows. I’ve seen all I needed to see.
Clear Kleenex would be fun, though. I wonder if Saran Wrap works as tissue paper. You could blow your nose into it, wrap it in a ribbon, and then put it on your friend’s desk. Perfect holiday gift.
Let’s say basketball adds a four-pointer and a five-pointer to games. A four-pointer is a shot from beyond half court, and five-pointer is from the paint on the opposite side of court. Players will obviously start practicing it more often, but do teams make it a big part of practices? Does any coach down attempt the five-point shot, or do they all stubbornly go for quick points and foul?
If the coach decides to go for the quick points and the goddamn foul, I think it should legal to take that coach and throw him off a bridge. Anyway, if the five-point shot were legal, I would just have Steph Curry attempt it on every possession, like so:
Anyway, I assume that from those distances, teams wouldn’t bother deploying the four- and five-pointers, because it would be such a low percentage play. Right now, teams make an average of 35 percent of their three-pointers, and they attempt roughly 23 a game (this season set a record for three-point attempts, BTW), which means they get 23 points per game from threes. If they only make, say, 10 percent of their half-court shots (and that’s probably being generous), they’d have to attempt 60 four-pointers every game to beat their three-point total. It’s not worth it. They’d only save those shots for the very end, with time running out.
That sucks, because I’m all for novelty rules like this that fundamentally destroy the game of basketball as we know it. I like threes, and I like dunks. Midrange jumpers do nothing for me. If I’m ever in a gym, alone, I practice nothing but threes and halfcourt shots, and then I miss a shitload of them and go do the occasional layup just to boost my self-esteem (I then miss that layup). Then I put the ball down and try to run and jump and touch the rim (I do not succeed), then I go back to shooting threes. My kid played basketball this winter, and every boy in the gym spent his available downtime launching threes. It’s not sound kiddie-basketball strategy. But in terms of psychological payoff, I’d rather attempt 20 half-court shots and make ONE than make 10 layups in a row. When that one fluky half-court shot goes in, I exult.
What percentage of their own body could a really flexible person lick? I’d be lucky to get 15 percent (hands, forearms, some shoulder/upper arm, tops of thighs/knees). Can anyone eclipse 50 percent?
As a test exercise, I just tried to lick every part of my body possible. I got my fingers, hands, some of my forearm (but not all … it’s harder than you think, and licking your elbow is nigh impossible), my bicep, the top of my shoulder, my armpit, and some of my chin. That’s it! No toes. No knees. No genitals, much to my regret. I really need to stretch more. I’d make a terrible cat. Anyway, I don’t think I even managed to cover 5 percent of my body’s surface area. So I think a gymnast or a contortionist could easily best that number, but perhaps not go as high as 50 percent. Your entire back is off limits. As is most of your head. And I think it’s really hard for anyone to get an angle on their hips, chest, belly, butt, balls, and the entire outside of the legs and feet. I’m sure gymnasts can suck their own toes and stuff, but covering the entire foot is rough sledding. My tongue hurts now. I feel like I just sent out wedding invites.
Plus, my skin is all moist and gross now. Now I know how women feel when guys come on too strong. “Hey, can you NOT do that?”
Could an average HS football team beat a team made up of NFL punters at every position?
No. Punters are world-class athletes! Most of those guys played real positions in high school. They’d beat the piss out of San Dimas High School football, no much how much it rules. GROWN ASS MEN*.
(Any hypothetical such as this one is usually punctuated with the “men versus boys” take. And while that’s true for the above situation, it gets a bit dicier when we’re talking about college teams versus pro teams and stuff, given that 22-year-old college players are PLENTY grown. From a physical standpoint, they are very much men. It’s not like you grow an extra four inches on Draft Day. “Here’s your Man Card, sonny!”)
The drain in my shower is slightly clogged, resulting in roughly a one-inch backup during a normal shower; at what point will I be bathing in my own filth? Or have I already passed society’s standard for efficient showering?
You probably need to get it fixed in case it causes a leak and/or gives you athlete’s foot. And I say that knowing that it’s fun to have an inch of water in the bottom of the shower to splash around in. It’s kinda like being at the beach! But once the water stops going down the drain in an expedited fashion, you need to get it fixed, because you do not want plumbing problems. Dental problems and plumbing problems and tax problems are among the league leaders in Worst Problems to Have. And if you leave a small plumbing problem unattended, it can quickly turn into a very large plumbing problem that will destroy your will to live. Take it from Vincent Gardenia…
(By the way, even though athlete’s foot is a complete pain in the ass, the name of the fungus still makes it feel 10 times cooler to me than any other disease. I truly feel like an athlete any time I get it. “Yeah man, I shot so many free throws that I got athlete’s foot. Just went a bit too hardcore.” I am overly proud of myself anytime I get ringworm between my toes. All diseases should have such uplifting names. If cancer was called Millionaire’s Good Luck Charm, I wouldn’t be so afraid of it.)
What is the average time between when a guy gets to his hotel room on a business trip and when he starts jacking it?
Thirty seconds? My clothes are off by the time the door is shut. You’ve had a long flight. The rental car shuttle took 90 minutes to pick you up. There was traffic on the way to the hotel. The clerk tells you that your room isn’t ready. You try to look for food, but somehow you are in the one hotel in town that doesn’t have a viable restaurant within a 10-mile radius. That moment you finally get to walk in the door and throw all your shit down and go to town on yourself? That’s your reward. You EARNED that 60 seconds with the complimentary body lotion.
Let’s say A-Rod has an amazing season: hits 40+ home runs, leads the Yankees to the World Series, World Series MVP ... every outrageous achievement you can think of. Then he retires at the end of the year. How do the Yankees choose to remember him? Does he get invited back for Old Timers’ Day? Does he get a plaque in Monument Park?
You know, that scenario isn’t all that far-fetched now that A-Rod is the Yankees’ best hitter and the Yankees, despite technically being in last place, are still only two games out of the division lead. It could all still happen, except for the part where he retires at the end of the year. That’s the most unrealistic part.
Anyway, I think the Yankees organization would hold their noses and say all the bland, nice things about A-Rod’s comeback, all the while silently fuming, convinced he was back on PEDs. And then they would hire a private eye to go dig up proof of it, and then the private eye would get caught breaking into A-Rod’s hotel room, and then the Post would dub the scandal RodGate, and then baseball would suspend everyone and you really wouldn’t understand why. You would just be sick to death of it within a week or so.
It’s impossible, at this point, for A-Rod to have a heartwarming comeback story. Whatever he accomplishes from here on out with be greeted with either skepticism (people are already talking about him being back on the juice) or grudging respect. That’s less an indictment of his crimes than his personality, of which he has none. He’s just a very difficult man to feel affection for. And that’s saying a lot given that America will give pretty much ANY athlete a chance to redeem himself. Fucking Ray Rice just got his own little rehab press tour. But A-Rod is so socially awkward and seemingly disingenuous that, no matter what he does, people will just say “Fuck that guy” about him until the day he dies.
If you had to undertake one of these physical challenges, which do you choose?
1. Climbing Everest
2. Swimming the English Channel
3. Running a 100-mile ultramarathon
You get to prep beforehand.
Everest. It’s not even close. If I can train and I’m given all the fancy-pants equipment that he Sandy Hill Pittmans of the world have access to, including six poor sherpas carrying me up the mountain in a fucking litter, I could handle Everest, so long as I have 500 tanks of supplemental oxygen at my disposal. That trail is so worn-out that they probably have a Denny’s halfway up the mountain by now. Today, Everest is so horribly littered with garbage (and dead bodies) that it’s been all but ruined by socialite tourism. I could be one of those environmentally destructive tourists. Spot me the Nepalese government extortion fee and I’ll be there with my crampons, ready to go.
Despite its obvious dangers, Everest is a way more fun physical challenge than the other two. There is no enjoyable part of running a hundred miles, except when the hallucinations set in. And the English Channel is cold and miserable. What if there are sharks? What if they’re British sharks that have bad teeth and like mayonnaise? No thank you. Climbing Everest is a bitch, but at least you can take in the view and snap a selfie and eat some tiger jerky en route.
What would you eat for breakfast every day if you were ridiculously wealthy and could eat anything in the world? My husband and I had this long discussion about this, because generally, “splurge” breakfast foods are horribly unhealthy, so you’d have to have some sort of self control or you’d eat eggs Benedict every day for a year and then drop dead from the cholesterol. But if you had all the money in the world, it’d be pretty lame to eat granola for breakfast. What would you do?
Private omelet station. Nothing beats the private omelet station. “Yeah, I’ll have an omelet with some ham, and bacon, and maybe a bit more ham. And some cheese. And some more bacon. Can you make the omelet out of bacon and put the egg INSIDE?” I would have a hard time resisting that option. Just a daily omelet, with 50 pounds of lobster meat and caviar on top. Not that unhealthy, actually! Especially if you go light on lunch and dinner. This would be a problem if the omelet bar were still around for those meals as well.
But hey, you’re rich. I think rich people are freer to get fat because A) they are rich and powerful, and people will kiss their ass anyway, and B) liposuction. So add an extra pound of smoked sable to the top of that omelet, amigo. Every day is my cheat day.
Last semester I nominated a professor of mine for an award at the college I go to. Turns out that the essay I wrote for his nomination got me invited to his award ceremony. Anyways, there is this big, fancy cocktail party and dinner before the event. How acceptable is it for me to get shitfaced before it? It will mostly be alumni there, and I’ll be one of the few students.
Do you have to give a speech? No? Get fucking LIT. At your age, free alcohol is a very important thing that needs to be taken full advantage of. Don’t skip out on it just for the sake of your “future.” That college professor isn’t gonna help you get a job anyway, even though you helped win him the Blarney Congeroo Prize at your local college. That fucker owes you. Get trashed, and then throw up in his shoes. He’ll remember you fondly anyway. “Why, you remind me of me when I was a youth!”
I remember when I interviewed for an internship once. They interviewed me at a bar, and the bosses were drinking. So I drank as well. And when I told my mom that I drank during the interview, she nearly blew my head off. But you know what? I got the damn job. EAT IT, MOM. (For real though, don’t eat it. I still love you. Just trust my judgment once in a while, you know?)
Cheez-Its or Goldfish (cheddar), who you got?
Goldfish. Their rounded edges make for better face-stuffing. Try stuffing your face with a dozen Cheez-Its sometime. Those things have corners, you know.
“Fruit on the bottom” yogurt sucks. I have to dig my spoon all the way to the bottom in an attempt to stir the fruit into the yogurt without overflowing the sides of the cup and ruining my work clothes by 9 a.m. Not to mention my spoon has gobs of yogurt halfway up the shaft now. It’s a lot of annoying work.
I agree wholeheartedly. Even when you dig deep down, you still end up missing half the fruit on the bottom to mix in, which is irritating. This is why I will give you two options for foiling BIG YOGURT and their cheap horseshit. One: use any leftover chopsticks hanging around at work to stir that yogurt up, and THEN dip in with your spoon. Two: Buy a big fucking tub of plain vanilla yogurt and a jar of jam. Then get a bowl and mix some of each together. PRESTO. You’ve gotten your fruit without going to the bottom. Now add some crushed Oreos to reward yourself for being so clever.
Email of the week!
I went to take a dump at work, and the pipes were frozen, so I couldn’t flush. I don’t have a question: I just needed someone to talk to about it.
I feel you. I took my son to the bookstore to crap the other day, and we just missed out on the big stall because another dude slipped in before us. And I swear to God, this guy took eight goddamn hours to shit. Why don’t I ever get trapped behind an EFFICIENT shitter? I also get the guy who ate 50 pounds of Chipotle and swallowed a brick the night before. Asshole. Then I looked in the tiny shitter and someone had overflowed it with diarrhea. I hate everyone. Burn the world to the ground.
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.
Image by Sam Woolley.
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