Time for your weekly edition of the Deadspin Funbag. Got something on your mind? Email the Funbag. Today, we’re covering canned fish, beards, celebrity wedding officiants, and more.
I think by now it is generally accepted that everyone brings their phone to have a poop (with the rare exception of the weirdos who still bring magazines). Is it okay to watch a video while I do my business at work? I feel as though the person in the stall next to me will think I am being disrespectful, even if I keep the volume low. Should I bring headphones? Should I just not watch videos on the can? YouTube ain’t gonna watch itself.
Don’t watch videos on the shitter, especially with the volume on at any level. Pooping is as close as I get to quiet prayer. I don’t want my little moment of Zen ruined by some asshole next door watching a Funny or Die video. That would cause me to rage poop. I’m not a fan of rage pooping.
I’m gonna lay it down for good here: There should be NO AMBIENT SOUND in a public bathroom. No talking. No chit chat. No videos. No loud headphones. There should only be grunting and farting, and that’s it. Do not disturb the sanctity of the place with some shitty buffering HBO Go vid. Those shows were meticulously written and directed and meant to be seen on a big screen, not on a 5-inch screen streaked with human waste.
You’re not gonna be able to fully enjoy that video while squeezing one out anyway. What if you have to cut the video short? What if an ad blares up and you have to mute it, but you use a poopy finger by accident? What if a big guy hears the video and gets mad and storms into the stall to beat you down while you poop yourself? There are so many hazards involved here. It’s not worth the risk. I live in daily fear of dropping my phone in the toilet (not enough to keep it in my pocket, but still). Save that video for another time.
Is there anything more terrifying than opening a tin of smoked oysters? That last bit of the lid’s a fucking spring-loaded booby trap that’ll either spatter you in oil and oyster juice or somehow slice your thumb off and your eyeball open.
I wasn’t aware any of our readers were bold enough to buy canned oysters. I walk the canned-fish aisle at the supermarket with a mix of curiosity and terror. What are sprats? Are those good? Or is that just a can of hepatitis? I want to know, and yet I don’t want to know.
I would love to enjoy a can of oysters that retails for a mere 79 cents, but I know that I’d end up getting what I paid for. There are a lot of foreign-goods supermarkets near where I live, and those places are stocked with all kinds of batshit-insane canned seafood. Like, you’ll see a label marked only in Russian and have no idea what’s inside. If I were running a frat (one day!), I’d buy all the poorly labeled Eastern European smoked herring cans and have a taste test for pledges.
The only canned fish I buy with any regularity is tuna (draining the water from a can of tuna is a horrifying moment … GAHHHH TUNA WATER ALL OVER ME) and anchovies. I presume that opening an anchovy can presents the same danger as opening a can of smoked oysters: When you crack it open, you are immediately attacked by overflowing anchovy oil. It’s the worst. Then, as D said, you get to the end of the lid, and it’s ready to go full Roman candle all over you.
But I accept that there’s no real foolproof way to vacuum seal a bunch of smelly fish preserved in fat. Anchovies can slime you even if they come in jars or bags. It’s just the cost of doing business when you want to increase the sodium intake of your pizza dinner by 60,000 percent. SO GOOD.
How early is too early to drink?
The American standard is five o’clock*, even though I’ve broken that rule many times, because the hour between 4 and 5 p.m. is the longest hour in the human experience (especially if you have children). It is the witching hour of death, and sometimes Daddy needs an old fashioned to muddle through.
But I still keep 5 p.m. as the standard: That’s the little magical barrier I put up to convince myself that I am NOT an alcoholic. And even when I break it, I’m like, “Well, I don’t do this NORMALLY!” to excuse myself for the not-at-all-anomalous anomaly.
Here is the real rule: It’s too early to drink if you know, for certain, that you will have to do something legitimately productive (or drive a car) somewhere later on. Like, if you still have to go to a job interview, you’re drinking too early. If you still have to drive your kid to a swim meet, you’re drinking too early. If you are actively mixing the enjoyment of alcohol with your most critical responsibilities as a human being, you’re drinking too early. I only like drinking when my shit is DONE. When I can sit there and drink and know that I can keep drinking, unfettered. Sometimes, that happens at five. Sometimes, that happens at noon. When I was a single person, it happened right when I woke up, which was nice. That doesn’t really happen anymore.
(*This rule is completely worthless in other countries. In the U.K., they drink all the fucking time and somehow it makes perfect sense. It’s probably the weather.)
My friends and I were invited to a wedding at a big fancy golf resort a couple hours away, so we plan on staying the night. The only rooms available though are $300-a-night double-queen-bed suites. I suggested that my single buddy and I split a room; he is having none of this. Am I being a cheapskate by suggesting this, or is he being an idiot for spending an extra $150?
Why would he say no? Is he rich? Splitting the big room is the way to go. You should punch him in the stomach.
This is the problem with weddings. For your standard big-ass wedding, the bride and groom usually block off hotel rooms or give you a choice of hotels. And the choices are always a) the expensive joint, or b) the cheap, sad, loser hotel located 20 miles away. And then you pick the cheap hotel, and EVERYONE ELSE stays at the expensive joint. They’re at the cool hotel, living it up, and you feel like a fucking pud for staying elsewhere. “Uhhh, sorry guys. I have to go. Shuttle bus service ends at 10:45 here in Omaha.” It’s elitist, I tell you! For any wedding, there should be ONE hotel, right at the site of the reception, and every room should be five dollars.
I am getting married this October, and my future wife is a big Cincinnati Reds fan. Our wedding is in Cincy, and she had the idea of getting Pete Rose to marry us. So she emailed his people, and a few weeks later they responded that he would do it—for the low, low price of $25,000. Obviously, we had a good laugh and declined, but it made me think: Assuming you had the money to blow on something so pointless, who would be your ideal pick for a wedding officiant? I think mine would be Arsenio Hall dressed up as Reverend Brown from Coming to America.
$25,000?! Can we shoot Pete Rose already? Even Donald Trump looks at Pete Rose and is like, “Have some class, fella.” I am outraged on behalf of you and your fiancée.
Anyway, my choices for celebrity wedding officiant are fairly obvious:
1. Stephen Colbert. He can’t be too funny, though. I don’t want him upstaging me. Let’s keep the funny level at about a five for this. I AM THE STAR HERE, COLBERT.
2. Obama. THANKS OBAMA. No really, Thanks for taking time out of your schedule to do this.
3. Cool Pope. He’d make you do the full Catholic ceremony, though. That’s when the priest is like, “You two should sit down here at the altar. I’m gonna be a while.” That’s a long wedding.
4. Mickey Rourke. With the dog, too.
Pete Rose, incidentally, would be the WORST justice of the peace ever. He’d say something clumsy and boring, and then set up a card table over in the corner and charge everyone $50 for a signed photograph. Hate that guy.
Wouldn’t NHL game sevens be even better if the losers were forcibly shaved, on the ice and in front of the crowd, immediately after the final period? Imagine the beardlust of the crowd as a pair of shears is removed from the trophy and a barber haphazardly hacks away at the player’s beard and dreams at center ice. Purists may complain, but I have no concept of hockey and didn’t mind the glowing puck. Fight me.
Actually, you know what’s a more realistic option there? If the WINNING team cut off their beards, right on the ice. Like, you win the Cup, you get to hoist the Cup, and then the ceremonial shearing begins. Then you can pass out your beard hair to fans (so lucky!) or fill the cup with a mélange of team beard hair. I would watch that. I would pay at least 50 cents to watch that. It would be like cutting down the nets, only better. And with more risk of Legionnaire’s disease.
Where do you stand on phone conversations in an elevator full of other people?
Don’t do that. Don’t talk on the phone in an elevator and don’t watch videos while crapping. You’re not gonna get reception in the elevator anyway. Elevators are isolated space vacuums that repel all gamma rays and telecommunication signals. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve walked into an elevator mid-conversation, stupidly hoping the signal would remain connected.
ME (ON THE PHONE): Well, actually, I think it’s a fine idea for the site to have two successive dong pictures on it! [Steps into elevator.] Wait, hang on, I’m stepping into an elevator. [Whispering.] Can you still hear me? What about now? What about NOW? What about now? What about now? [People start staring.] Bob? Bob, you still there? ... FUCK.
Don’t be like me. Save the chat for later.
Say you take an average high school athlete who has never played football before and put him on a field. Would it be easier for him to play cornerback or wide receiver?
Wideout. Wideout is the easier position, and you can still get productivity out of a wideout even if they only know two or three routes (please consult Randy Moss’ entire career for one such example). A cornerback has to be familiar with routes AND recognize all the kewl dekes and double-moves that wideouts do to get open. And then there is the matter of running backwards, like the old Ginger Rogers quote implies.
Up until last year, rookie wideouts were notorious for being unreliable. But rookie corners usually get crushed, too. I bet there are plenty of talented potential corners out there who could do the job, but had their shit ruined the first time out and never regained their confidence as a result. The only reason I might avoid sticking an average high school player at wideout initially is because it’s high school, and the fear of dropping a pass in front of everyone (especially girls) is worse than the fear of getting burned by another dude. Dropping a pass in public is like having your balls openly slapped. It’s the worst feeling.
About a month ago on my drive home, I saw a guy walking down the street in northwest D.C., nonchalantly as fuck, with a snake wrapped around his arm. Not a Britney Spears python, but at least 2.5 feet of arm candy. I get that this is probably his pet, like a dog or a cat, but I find this extremely inappropriate. I’m fucking terrified of snakes (def in my top 3), and I know I’m not alone on that front. Plus dogs are way easier to avoid in public. If unexpectedly someone walked past me with a snake that wasn’t in some kind of freaky carnival setting, I’d flip a shit.
Yeah, but why else have a snake unless you’re gonna walk around with it draped around you like a winter scarf? Snakes are the only wearable pets out there, man.
For real, though, snake ownership should require some kind of certification test and background check. You shouldn’t be able to sell any asshole a snake. “It’s okay! He doesn’t bite!” Sure, buddy. Sure he doesn’t. I don’t trust you to sashay around responsibly with a snake, nor do I trust you to leave it in a glass box at your apartment while you head out to that King Diamond concert. I want your snake box double-boxed. Seal it in a big anchovy can.
What percentage of the single male population in the United States would agree to marry Taylor Swift without ever meeting her in person? Let’s assume in this scenario the first time you meet her would be at the altar, and there would be no prenuptial agreements between either parties.
WHAT KIND OF HOTEL DID SHE BOOK?!
Anyway, there are lots of factors that go into that. Do you automatically get to consummate the marriage? Or is it just awkward for everyone involved right away? If there’s consummation, you’re basically asking if the average single man would sleep with Taylor Swift in exchange for a quickie annulment after the fact, which … YES. I mean, why not? She’s an attractive famous person. That’s a good chip to have after the marriage falls apart. “Yeah, Taylor and I just couldn’t work it out.”
Think of how impressed OTHER women will be. “Well, he had a sham marriage to a famous person for two days. I WANT HIM.” I assume that’s how it works. I may be wrong. At the very least, you will end up immortalized in her next hit, “I Fucked You and Now I Regret It.”
So it’s a nice summer day in Boston, and my wife and I are enjoying lunch outside on our lunch break. I make an offhand comment about how I really don’t feel like working, and would love to enjoy the rest of the day from home. My wife jokingly suggests that I should just crap my pants so I can leave work. We both laughed, but that left me thinking. Is there any situation that you would be willing to crap your own pants, as a full-fledged adult, just to avoid dealing with? I can’t think of anything that I would intentionally ruin my pants and self-esteem for. However, I also suffer from irritable bowel syndrome, so the chance of crapping my pants is always on the table to start with.
Jail. I would crap my pants to avoid being sentenced to jail. That’s an easy choice. You shit your pants, clean it up, and then remain a free man. Pretty fantastic deal, if you ask me. I would shit my pants on TELEVISION to avoid going to jail. Just one big hot dump right in my cargo shorts. I lose the battle, but win the war. And no legal fees!
But that’s an extreme circumstance. I assume that you are talking about eliminating mundane annoyances through the miracle of soiling yourself. Forthwith, I would shit my pants in exchange for the following things:
* No more traffic
* No power outages, ever
* On-call housecleaning services
* No more car repairs, ever
* Never filling out a health care form again
Damn, turns out I would shit my pants for a lot of things. Someone make me an offer and I’ll shit my pants for ya. I’m game.
Yesterday, I walked up to the deli counter where there was no wait, and the dude immediately took my order. Fifteen minutes later, I had a pound of turkey. How long should it take for a deli-counter dude (in a grocery store, not a butcher shop) to fill a simple order if nobody is waiting and he’s not off having a smoke?
Two minutes. You should have to have a college degree to work the deli counter at the grocery store. It’s the most important job, and should be handled with the urgency of diffusing a large bomb. You can’t put Joey Mouthbreather in charge of that station. He should be mopping up the sesame oil spill in aisle six, not taking 20 minutes to give you a pound of ham cut into three one-inch slices. That results in war.
Whenever I encounter an efficient deli-slicer, I want to hug them and never let go. One lady sliced my shit paper-thin and gave me a free sample, all in under a minute. I asked to adopt her.
For the first time in my life, at the age of 28, it occurred to me to sit up and lean back against the open toilet seat lid while pooping. The feeling of not being hunched over giving myself scoliosis is incredible. Has everyone but me been doing this forever? Is this gross? What is normal pooping posture?
I don’t think most people lean back against the lid and tank, for the simple reason that it restricts rectal flow. The normal shitting position (in America, anyway) is sitting down and leaning forward a bit, so that your ass cheeks are spread out at maximum width. If I’m in a real bind, I lean even farther forward, to let the toilet know I mean business. I want the poop to flow freely. And I don’t want any residual poop getting on the inside of my ass cheeks.
You can go ahead and rest your back on the lid if you REALLY want to. I’ve done it, and it feels freeing for a second. But then I’m ready to get back into the ring. Besides, God knows what kind of microscopic splashback is on the underside of a toilet lid. If you lift up the toilet seat in any stadium, there’s usually shit on it. How did the shit get there? What kind of anal physics were involved? I’m baffled.
How many glasses do you think the average person breaks in his/her lifetime?
Maybe one a year. Is that too high of an estimate? Whenever I break a glass, I react as if I just dropped a baby. OH MY GOD THE GLASS! Where will I ever find another glass in this world? I had eight wine glasses, and now I only have seven! You CAN’T throw a proper wine party with just seven people. Everything is ruined now.
Anyway, if you don’t happen to work in the hospitality business, I’d say that the average person breaks a glass once a year at most. That’s true even if you’re an alcoholic. Alkies may spill drinks, but they protect drink glasses like they’re hydrogen-suitcase-bomb designs. MY PRECIOUS WHISKEY TUMBLER! If I ever break a glass these days, it’s the glass’ fault for being so thin and not being able to hold up against being gently placed in a metal sink. I swear I broke a glass once just because I was washing it too aggressively. What kind of glass is that? That glass had no poise.
Also, you might think that children break many glasses, but we live in the age of baby proofing. I’d trust my kid to drive a car before I handed them a proper glass. It’s a 32-part rubberized plastic sippy cup for you, young lady.
Which band’s fans are furthest from that band’s image? The average Rolling Stones fan is an enormously fat, beer-guzzling dad wearing Crocs, Bermuda shorts, and a Rolling Stones T-shirt at a Rolling Stones concert.
You could probably take your choice of any hair metal bands from the 1980s. I mean, I love Mötley Crüe, and look at me …
That’s not rock and roll. Back in the day, your average metal concert attendee was a 200-pound 13-year-old in a WINGER T-shirt. Like Stewart from Beavis & Butthead. That also goes for any old ’90s-rap fans, too. I grew up with a LOT of Minnesota white kids who liked NWA. Eazy E would turn over in his grave. I personally loved Public Enemy—I would listen to Fear of a Black Planet and be like, “Yeah! Start a revolution, man!”—but I’m not starting shit. I’m the one the revolution is supposed to run over.
My wife and I had some people over for a BBQ. After everyone arrived, I pulled out the grill, turned on the gas, and sparked the ignition. As the burners lit, a roach I hadn’t previously noticed went scurrying under the heat plates and out of sight. I stood there silently trying to decide what to do, ultimately figuring I had two options: 1) Shut the gas, take off the now-hot grates and heat plates to search for and remove the thing, which could lead to a panic amongst my guests or end up in my wife making me do something lame with the food like bake it in the oven, or 2) keep my mouth shut and assume it escaped or got burned up, at the risk of some roach-flavored chicken. I decided on #2 and haven’t mentioned it to anyone until now. That was my only real option, right?
Yup. The whole point of having a grill is so that you can jack it up to 800 degrees and burn away all potential roach meat. Perfectly sanitary. I don’t think I’ve cleaned my grill in 10 years. You put it on high, incinerate everything until it’s ash white, and then brush that shit with a contaminated steel brush. That is how a REAL MAN takes care of a grill. Once a year, I maybe hose it down for fun, because I like hosing things. But I’d rather shit my pants then soak the grates. I’m probably gonna poison my family one day.
By the way, you ever have the drip tray on a grill overflow? It’s pretty awesome.
Email of the week!
What would happen if, during an extra point of an NFL game, instead of kicking the ball, the kicker just wound up and kicked the holder square in the ass? I feel that the holder’s ass is too far away from the ball for the kicker to just be like, “Oh, I just missed the ball.” Maybe then we could finally see the Kicker vs. Punter fight I’ve always wanted to see. Either way, I don’t see how that kicker doesn’t undergo a mental health evaluation and get cut Monday morning.
Yeah, he’s out on his ass. And I’d cut the holder, too. That kick would be in my head for the rest of my career.
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.
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