Is fat meat? I'm not talking about fat that comes along for the ride with your steak. A fatty steak or hamburger is obviously meat. This is about a pristine hunk of fat. Imagine hacking off a hunk of your friend's beer belly and considering just the fat. We tried calling the USDA's Meat Hotline (yes, there really is such a thing) to ask, but everyone was out "at a training." Not kidding. The recording said that's where everyone was.
"Are you gonna eat your fat?" Anyway, I tend to think of fat as fat, unless it's marbled into the proper meaty part. If there's just some glistening white globule left on the plate, with no other flesh tissue attached to it, that's just fat.
Take a strip of bacon, for example. The strip clearly has fat in it, but the whole strip is meat. Now tear off just the white part. That's fat now. You just de-meated it.
Not to say I wouldn't eat it. I'll eat the hell out of that fat. My wife pushes it to the side of the plate, and when I clear it, I just grab it all up and stuff it in my mouth once I'm in the kitchen. Sometimes I'll even open and close the garbage can to make it SOUND like I've disposed of it. But I'm not throwing away that fat. That sizzling, salty, charred fat on the end of a ribeye? That's fucking gold. That's why God loves us all.
Realistically, who is the target customer for a high school cheerleading team's charity car wash? Assuming you don't mind the poor quality and are doing it to give back to the community, is there any way that a guy could go to one without looking like a total creep?
Yeah, I've never used a high school charity car wash. There's no point in doing it when I can go to the Flagship and get a decent one for $15 and NOT look like a scumbag who is hoping the local high school girls recreate the car wash scene from Wild Things. That's a no-win situation for me. They weren't gonna strip down anyway. If I want a legitimately clean car, I'll go to the experts. Those charity washes are meant for soccer moms, anyway, because soccer moms are more than happy to donate the money and are FAR more invested in keeping a tidy car than I am. I don't know why we're paying for a car wash when I can just wait for it to rain anyway. Rain is free.
By the way, if I'm gonna let a kid wash my car, it's gonna be my own kid. Tell your kid you need your car washed and they shit the floor with excitement. They will never turn down 10 minutes of quality hose time. If you'd like to know why the world's water supply is quickly drying up, children with hoses is the No. 1 culprit. They will waste the FUCK out of water.
In the history of civilization (let's say, starting 10,000 or so years ago), what percentage or orgasms by all of humanity have been by men? Is it 99.9? I think it's 99.9.
This link says that men have three orgasms for every one orgasm a woman has, which would put the number at 75 percent. But I can definitely see the percentage being even higher. There's a report here that says college-age men masturbate 12 times a month on average, which strikes me as breathtakingly inaccurate. The number was 4.7 times a month for women (I assume that .7 includes a gentle, no-expectations self-diddling while enjoying a good book). If you round that up to five (I will) and credit those men with jacking it 30 times a month (I will) instead of 12 times a month, then we're up to six times more orgasms than the ladies. And then there's this: "64 percent of women report having had an orgasm at their most recent sexual event."
Well, look, the average man is always gonna finish his business during a sexual event, even if he has to fight off a tiger and look his mother dead in the eye while doing it. I think that the percentage of orgasms that have gone to men is closer to 85 to 90 percent. We men hog everything: natural resources, money, land, the chicken. I don't see why we wouldn't hog this as well. More orgasms means we win!
If given rolls as the freebie bread before your meal, why can't they give you melted/drawn butter instead of the pats or little ramekins? Isn't it much easier to dip than to spread?
It's too messy, and it would require the wait staff to nuke the little butter dish just before bringing it out to the table, which would take time and probably cut the restaurant's already razor-thin profit margins by 0.3 percent. No good. I'm fine with solid butter, so long as it's warm and spreadable. If you give me cold butter, your restaurant is garbage. Now I gotta drag that ice-cold pat across my bread and rip up the turf like it's FedEx Field. Terrible bread experience. I want that shit smooth like peanut butter. I wanna wipe it across my genitals.
By the way, a special shoutout to any restaurant that has a special breadbasket item, like popovers or those cheddar biscuits at Red Lobster. You don't even have to order anything at Red Lobster, really. Just get a fruity drink and eat the basket of cheddar biscuits, and you've got a quality meal.
As I understand, it the current PEDs don't grow muscle, but repair it. So what if 10 years from now, it comes out that PED use actually repairs the damage caused by a concussion?
Then PEDs for all! All along, the cure was right under our noses, and it was sweet, lovely HGH! By the way, I bet the NFL is working on that right now. I bet Roger Goodell hired a bunch of science people and told them, "Go find me cure for brain hurt. We get thing right if brain hurt cured long time." It's the NFL's only way out at this point.
Why does every professional or medical office building in America lock its hallway bathrooms? I understand the need in a high-pedestrian area, but I was in a doctor's office today with exactly zero pedestrian street traffic in its immediate vicinity (i.e., only the building's occupants and legit visitors use the bathrooms), and every bathroom had locks. Nothing is worse than lugging the mini baseball bat with a key ring drilled into the end of it, festering with some other guy's dick residue. Is this just a custom no one has rethought, or is there some valid reason for this?
I assume it's also a matter of security. They don't want hobos pissing in there, obviously, but they also don't want the receptionist's crazed biker boyfriend to waltz in, set up camp in the stall, wait until dark, and then burn the place down. The odds of that happening are slight, but there are few things that corporate America loves more than forbidding people to go places.
I'm not a big fan of the five-button pass-code lock, either. I hate having to announce to the receptionist that I need the magic numbers to go potty. I feel like I'm five when I do that. Everyone knows the passcode is 2-1-3 anyway. They just put a needless barrier between me and not shitting my pants.
What's the deal with people using definite articles instead of possessive determiners all the time now? " I took the boyfriend out to dinner." "I got the girlfriend some flowers." Jesus, I can't stand people who do this.
I'm not as against it as you are. I think people do it just to mix things up. Also, in general, no one gives a shit about YOUR wife or YOUR dog. But if you say "the wife," that makes her more of a wife stock character, a universal wife, instead of the actual wife of yours that I, again, do not care about. You took out ALL the wives. It's a simple trick people use to sound less self-involved and give themselves a bit of ironic distance from their own lives. It's like a built-in rimshot. Take the wife, please! So I do that on occasion, because I'm just that insecure about your potential indifference to my own affairs. God, people who talk about themselves are the worst. Like, yesterday! See, the wife and I were at this party …
Would you be so kind as to rank the manliest forms of alcohol?
In reality, the manliest form of alcohol is whatever the fuck you feel like drinking whenever you feel like it. This is why I order frozen strawberry margaritas with no shame. But obviously, we live in the age of the Hard Drinkin' Bourbon Man, where drinking bourbon means you're a no-nonsense writererererer who spends his free time boxing and pulling fish out of the ocean with his bare hands. Plenty of fuckers out there like the idea of drinking bourbon more than the drink itself, so if you're gonna rank all booze that way, here's how it goes:
3. Heavy beer. No fruit flavoring. Preferably hoppy enough to taste like battery acid.
4. Expensive red wine (no Merlot).
5. Vodka (straight, preferably made from potatoes).
6. Pruno/moonshine (But real moonshine, not Father John Misty's Small Batch Craft Barleywine).
7. Tequila (straight).
8. Negroni or other not-too-sweet mixed drink. (NOTE: I had a Negroni once. It was fucking nasty.)
10. Light beer.
11. Sweet mixed drinks/Everclear punch.
12. Hard cider.
14. Riunite on ice.
15. White wine.
16. The Bud Light Rrrr-Ita! series.
But again, drink what you want. You'll accused of being either a pussy or a poser regardless, so you may as well enjoy what you're consuming.
I live in a college area, and last night in a drunken stupor, I tried to convince a Domino's employee that I would pay them slightly below-taxi-cab prices to drive me home if I ordered their largest size of pizza (ride fee was in addition to pizza price). Why hasn't a pizza place sprung up that delivers pizza and will pick you up if you're on the way? Does this exist in some college already? It seems like a logical combination of the two things drunk people like: food and abstaining from walking.
So you want Uber, but you want your Uber to be the Domino's guy? Is that right? I think the reason that business model is unlikely to succeed is because when most people order a pizza delivery, they're already home. If you're ordering Domino's, it's because you decided to stay in and watch Heat in your underwear and pause the movie every hour for a porn break, because your life is sad and empty and meaningless and making it otherwise requires wayyyyy too much effort. I know that's why I order Domino's. I'm not some hip, kewl, club kid who needs an Uber ride home because I took too much molly and now my crazy friends and I have to go have an '80s dance-off at my loft. Uber is for that. It is not for Sad Pizza Guys like me. Those demos don't intersect as much as you might think.
Now, if Uber offered an artisanal taco warmer inside every vehicle*, we're talking massive profits. Alternately, Domino's could offer a service where you pay $10 extra to invite the pizza guy inside and talk to him about why your breakup with Cynthia still has you bummed, even all these years later. There's no one else like her out there, man. That service would do well. ALSO: The time is way past due for the Domino's guy to legally double as your weed dealer.
(*I'm sure it violates many city ordinances, but what if we could install a minibar IN the backseat of a cab? I would gladly pay $10 while shitfaced to yank a bottle of shitty Coors Light out of the back of a cab and then hurl insults at the driver for taking the slow way.)
So I've been banging my (female) roommate for the past three weeks. We were both pretty drunk the first time we had sex, but this past weekend, we fucked twice sober. We've talked about it, and she seems content keeping it casual. She's cute, but I'm not going to start dating her, so how long do I realistically have before this backfires on me?
I think we all agree it's too late, yes? It's too late. If I have sex with someone, that's usually the first thing that pops into my head about them in my brain's Wikipedia. My brain is never like, "Hey, that's the girl from that hat store! Oh, and we had sex!" The sex is always the lead item, and it stays that way. Maybe you're not dating, but you ARE fucking, and that adds a whole other flavor profile to the roommate arrangement. If you can keep it cool forever, my hat's off to you. You probably read VICE or something.
But otherwise, your sexual relationship with your roommate will get messy and eventually end, and one of you will move out, and that divorce will be awkward at best and acrimonious at worst. Or, alternately, you guys actually become boyfriend and girlfriend and then get married and have kids and all that. That latter scenario probably isn't what you wanted/anticipated. Then again, that's how every guy ends up married. Every guy is like, "Whoa, hey, I wasn't looking to get married! I was looking forward to spending 50 straight years DRANKIN' WHISKEY AND KILLCRUSHING SOME PUSSY! So kudos to Jenny over there for taming this tiger!" Men are much easier marks for marriage than they ever let on. It takes NOTHING. One day you're Mister "Bro, I have bonus sex with my roommate because I'm a genius," the next, you're like, "Hey! She also likes Heat! I better marry this one!"
Anyway, if romantic comedies are any indication of real life (and they are!), you two crazy kids might just end up fallin' for each other*.
(*By the way, I'm old as shit, who the fuck knows if you folks in the SELFIETINDER generation are all just complete screen-addled psychopaths who can move around from fucking one person to the next with no emotional response of any sort. If that's the case, can I join you? I don't wanna have more in common with Mitch Albom than you guys.)
Are people's assholes all in the same place? Do the Dumblefucks down the block all have really high assholes? Is that why the back of their toilet bowl is constantly decimated?
I dunno, if you've watched enough pornography, most people's assholes SEEM to be in proper alignment. There isn't much wild variance, with one guy's asshole at the top of his butt crack and one girl's asshole at the bottom. Butts come in all shapes and sizes, but human physiology demands that your asshole remain right around the center of your ass crack, with enough room above for your tailbone and enough room below for your prostate gland. There's nowhere else for it to go. If it's radically out of alignment, it probably needs to be corrected, but I'm not going to look that up on Google, because I don't want to see pictures of it. You do it. It's the same with dick holes. The dick hole has a set place in the master template of male design. Unless you have Bong Dick.
Has anyone ever successfully used the car-key panic button to ward off burglars? Like has anyone ever been Johnny-on-the-spot looking out his window EXACTLY when guys in ski masks rip the door open with a crow bar? I don't think so. I'm convinced it's just a sick joke car manufacturers came up with to fuck over people who are trying to sleep.
I have to think someone has used it for its intended purpose. I would LOVE the chance to press it one day and scare a couple of teenage punk joyriders away. THAT'LL LEARN YOU SCAMPS. But I would probably fuck up and either forget to press the PANIC button, or I would press it and thus remind the guy stealing my car that he now has a witness that he must dispose of. I assume that the PANIC button is used successfully by one out of every 200,000 car buyers. If you press it on a GM car, your car actually comes alive and runs you over.
The rest of the time, that button basically serves as a blinking TOY sign to any child under three. All my youngest kid wants to do is play with keys, remote controls, and the city water supply. God forbid he pick out an actual toy to use.
What would be the difference if baseball had offenses and defenses? A completely different group of nine guys in the field versus the nine that bat.
I'd like that, because then every team's batting order would end up being just a bunch of fatasses who can hit homers. Nine portly, grotesquely bearded DH's per team, with a bunch of annoying little scrappers out in the field to do all the hard work. The quality of play would be improved, because you wouldn't have to worry about subpar hitters who are in the lineup to field, and vice versa. I bet the two sides of the team would grow to loathe one another, and then they would fight in the locker room, but not fight all the way, because baseball players only like to look like they're ABOUT to fight.
By the way, apropos of nothing, why are baseball players allowed to fucking trash their dugouts? Baseball is like, "Whoa, hey, no steroids! The kids might see you do them! Now, quick! Spit out 5,000 sunflower seed shells on the ground and leave it for our loser grounds crew to pick up."
At what age is one most dedicated and consumed by professional sports-following? I think I was at my prime around 10: I knew the names of just about every player on every team in all major sports, and I'd study, for hours at a time often, the backs of baseball cards, newspaper box scores, and post-game TV analyses. Not really into girls yet. You're made for this at age 10, agree?
I would vote for age 18 or 19. Because by that age, I knew all the players and coaches and shit (I even knew hockey things back then), PLUS I was out of the house at college, so my mom couldn't rope me into shit on the weekends or weeknights. And I had no bedtime or curfew. I could reserve ALL that time for watching all the sports I ever wanted. Like Big Monday! Do they still have Big Monday? I legitimately enjoyed Big Monday back then. I could give a fuck and a half about Big Monday now. I think I watched the entire Great Alaska Shootout once as well. Teenage me had some STRONG takes about how to win games the right way. I definitely used "Michael Jordan" and "ball hog" in the same sentence at one point.
And I used to get mad as hell when people ripped on my team. Like, someone would point out a very obvious thing about them ("Hey, the Vikings have never won any championships") and I would FREAK the fuck out. And then my team would validate that criticism by losing, and I would throw a chair across the room. I was fucking NUTS. I was more insufferable then the people I goof on today for the same thing. It's almost as if I'm really screaming at myself when I scream at OHMYGOD!
[Has moment of clarity.]
[Goes to live in woodsy cabin.]
So anyway, we need to impose a mandatory age minimum for sports fandom, because I don't wanna hear any shit from a 10-year-old about why Russell Wilson will always be an elite runner but not an elite passer.
Why is the signature tape so small? Who the fuck signs their name that small? There is no way it can compare to your actual signature. Fuck them.
Oh, I never abide by the box anyway. I let my signature flourishes break FREE and scrawl all over the back of the card. I refuse to be put into a BOX. I'm so much more than that, you know?
By the way, I rarely even bother to sign my credit card until some store clerk is like, "You need to sign it," and then I sign it, and then any concerns about me being an impostor are completely eradicated.
I'm currently sitting at a youth girl's volleyball game with my phone's battery on its last legs, dreading the moment my phone dies and I have to face this circus with no screen to distract me. This got me to thinking ... barring any event requiring calls or access to email, what's the worst event to have to endure with a dead phone?
A funeral. KIDDING. A plane ride is pretty brutal without a phone. That's why you see people huddled around the charging post in the terminal, like hobos around an oil barrel fire. They DREAD the idea of running out of juice with 40 minutes left in the flight. Those last 40 minutes, where they announce they're beginning they're descent and you think you mean you're close to landing, but you are nowhere near close to landing, and you gotta just sit there like a pud … it helps to have a phone for that. Even if there's no WiFi. I'll just adjust my brightness for half an hour.
If a Top 5 NFL/NBA/MLB prospect had the last name "Fuckface," how would it be handled? Would he be forced to change his name? Would his draft stock drop because of perceived bad decision-making blood lines? What would his jersey say?
Ahem, it's pronounced Fook-Fah-SAY. It's a variation on the original Susqualian. Anyway, Jimmy Fuckface's draft stock would be fine, but I'm sure the NFL would politely ask him for a tasteful arrangement in which only his last initial is used on the back of his jersey. And if Fuckface refuses, he's put on the exempt list.
Email of the week!
While traveling home from a cabin, my 7-year-old let me know he needed to use the bathroom. As always, we were four feet past the exit when this happened, so I implored him to give me 11 minutes to hit the next offramp. We hit the ramp, get stuck at both red lights standing between my son and evacuation, and finally make it to the gas station. I drop my wife and son at the door, then find a spot blocking several pumps while I waited. A few minutes later, my wife came to the door and signaled for me. I assumed I would be disarming a trucker trying to kidnap the boy, but instead, I was greeted by my shit-covered son.
We went out to the parking lot and began "bathing" him with a beach towel and some bottled water. Horrifyingly, he got an erection as I was scrubbing feces off his genitals, at which point I lost it. Sometimes you laugh to keep from crying. When I was finally done, I went into the bathroom to clean myself up. There was shit everywhere. Everywhere. If it had been my bathroom, I'd have lit a match and started over in a new town. I retreated to the car, hit the interstate and never looked back. I obviously can never go there again, but did I have a duty to clean that bathroom?
Probably, but it's a gas station bathroom. If your son hadn't defiled it, Big Jim Truckpants would have.
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.
Image by Tara Jacoby.
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