Time for your weekly edition of the Deadspin Funbag. Got something on your mind? Email the Funbag. Today, we're fouling out, sleeping in, talking jarred fetuses, and more.
A friend of mine just posted a picture on social media to commemorate the death of his grandma. The picture was of her open casket. I feel like I'm justified to be pissed off, because he crossed the line. I don't want dead bodies on my timeline. Also, what the hell is he doing taking a picture of the dead body at a funeral?
Yeah, no, that's completely inappropriate. If I'm eating a sandwich and cruising through my Facebook feed scouring for people in bikinis, I shouldn't stumble upon your grandma's dead body. That's 50 times worse than taking a selfie at a funeral. And what if flash photography ruins the embalming job?
In general, online grief is fucking weird. It tends to be an arms race between people who are trying to prove that they were the one most devastated by the loss. And it's of virtually no help to the dead. I'm sure Granny would like to see you visit her grave once in a while, but she's probably not cool with seeing you take three seconds between jerk sessions to write, "Nana died a yr ago today LOVEZ TO MY NANA" on Facebook next to a picture of her rotting corpse. She will not joyously play the harp from her little cloud upon witnessing that. No wake photos on Facebook, please. Let's not make that a thing.
What if football had fouling out? What if a player penalized five times was immediately removed from the game? Five individual penalties is probably too many. Maybe the cap should be two or three. Could you imagine if, say, Manning, Brady, or Brees has to sit out the rest of the game because they got flagged for intentional grounding a third time? What if Suh was out for jumping offsides three times?
I hate fouling out in basketball, because fouls can be called so subjectively, and I don't like it when a good player is forced to sit for the end of a half just because some asshole ref blew a ticky-tack third foul on him. Also, by natural law, the team in foul trouble is ALWAYS the team you're rooting for. It's a maddening phenomenon.
That said, I could see the NFL instituting a fouling-out policy. If they really want to "crack down" on head-to-head hits (all "cracking down" in the NFL must be noted with sarcastic quotation marks), giving a dude the gate for two 15-yarders in a single game would make a big difference. Because, as it stands now, a lot of guys will take the 15-yarder simply as the cost of doing business. Also, you could sniff out guys like Brandon Browner who exploit the subjectivity of officiating by holding a lot and daring officials to call it. If two pass-interference penalties gets you tossed, that strategy would become useless. Also, it would bring me great joy to see Phil Loadholt tossed from a game so that I don't have to watch him hold people anymore.
Anyway, they'll never implement this in football, because a) THAT'S NOT FOOTBAW, b) It adds another strategic wrinkle to a game that need 5,000 FEWER strategic wrinkles, C) it makes shitty calls even more glaring, and D) only defenders would end up getting victimized by the rule. If Drew Brees has two grounding penalties to his name, they're not calling a third. By contrast, they'll kick Ndamukong Suh out by halftime every other week. It would be yet another nobly conceived rule-change that would be implemented in a shitty, annoying way. The only realistic way the NFL will do this is if they create some kind of flagrant system for head shots, which is probably already in the works. I don't look forward to it.
What percentage of condiment packets get either thrown out or never used? I'm saying it has to be at least 90 percent.
No, it can't be that high. I always grab too many packets because I don't want to go back to the fixin's bar, so I always budget for more packets than I'll need. But then I'll still end up using most, if not all, of the packets. I could seriously use an entire ketchup packet on one fry. It's alarming.
There's never enough ketchup*, which is why those packets are hogged more than any other. I never hoard mustard packets the same way. I only need, like, one mustard packet. And if you're hoarding mayo packets, then you're either a murderer or an Englishman, and I will stay away from you. I say that 40 percent of all condiment packets get tossed into the garbage unopened, with ketchup and Taco Bell sauce accounting for the majority of the waste. Taco Bell sauces are hoarded because a) Fire Sauce is delicious, and b) stoned college students care far more about having enough Fire Sauce than they do about the welfare of the planet. I could put eight packets of Fire Sauce on one chicken soft taco. The thing bleeds like a stuck pig when I pick it up.
(*This is especially true when you have kids, because kids are holy terrors when it comes to ketchup use. They will always use too much, and they will spread it around on the plate and then demand more when the pile is low and there's still a sheet of ketchup sitting there. Any time I take my kids to McDonald's, I basically spend 30 minutes replenishing the ketchup supply. I also forget to get an extra tray, so I'm squirting out Heinz packets onto torn paper bags and spare tray liners. There are 5,000 different measles strains my kids will get from ill-advised surfaces used for ketchup consumption. Every joint should have the Chick Fil-A ketchup pouches with the dip/squeeze option.)
What is the minimum number of trained fighting dwarfs (TFD) it would take to kill a lion in its prime? The TFD don't have any weapons, but they're trained in Krav Maga or Jiujitsu or whatever fighting/self-defense technique you like. Assume the lion is hungry, territorial, and defending its cubs. For reference, I claim it's a minimum of five—one TFD to neutralize each of the lion's legs and the fifth to strangle the lion.
I don't think five is anywhere close to enough. You need two dwarfs to hold down each leg, plus a few extras to account for the inevitable mauling deaths that would occur on the first approach. Then you need to somehow hold the lion's body and head down, and I don't know if the dwarfs have enough mass to do that, even if they jump on the lion's back. Maybe five extra for that task? And then one dwarf has to either choke the thing (can you choke a lion?) and/or punch it to death (can you do that?) or, like, put a thumb through its eye and hope that you get some of his brain, too. So maybe 15 or so?
That's probably still not enough. The lion could probably fight off dwarf after dwarf in a constant loop until it runs out of energy. Maybe you need a couple hundred of them. I wouldn't feel safe at all with just five. Dwarf warriors are like ketchup packets.
Say you're a quarterback or a wide receiver, and you're 100-percent sure you're about to get obliterated by a defensive player. What's the best way to handle that: curl up into a ball, or try to go as limp as possible and absorb the hit, or what?
You have to get low. Getting low helps minimize the impact. The guys who get their shit wrecked are the wideouts who have to reach way up for the ball because Eli is trying to throw it to the fucking moon. Getting low reduces the surface area on your body that will get crushed, and you won't fall as far at the point of concussion.
At some point, the NFL will just put airbags in the uniforms. Some safety will come up ready to deliver a killshot on Julian Edelman when, BOOM! Airbag to the face. And a flagrant 2.
I was recently chatting with a friend who is somehow convinced that if given the chance, he could catch 90 percent of all routine MLB fly balls. Neither of us have played organized baseball since middle school, and we're both built like the guys the baseball team used to beat up for lunch money. Please explain how wrong he is so that we can get back to debating the important things, like whether or not hot dogs are sandwiches.
He is very wrong. What if there's sun? You know how annoying the sun is? You have to factor in the sun ruining you. Also, there's the whole psychological factor involved in making what is supposedly a routine feat of athleticism. Anyone who has ever played Little League baseball knows this angst all too well …
You can go ahead and triple that angst if you're in an MLB stadium and there are 40,000 people sitting there expecting you to NOT fuck up. What if you drop it? What if you judge the ball poorly and it lands on your face? Oh, God, do you know how much that would hurt? What if girls see you and you never get laid again? Is this glove broken-in enough? You oiled it and put it under the mattress, but it still feels a little stiff. How come Randy's glove is broken in so much better? What fucking black magic did he work on it? What if your parents are watching? You told your old man that you were a MAN and that you don't need his help, but now you can't even catch a lousy popup? Some "man" you are. OH GOD, IS THAT ORGAN MUSIC ALWAYS SO LOUD?
Anyway, your friend is wrong.
If you were rich and had absolutely zero responsibilities in life (no job, no kids, etc.), what time would you sleep till? I'm talking you at your age now, not as a hungover college kid or lazy teenager. I think I'd sleep till at least 10 a.m. and have no embarrassment about doing so.
I've been ruined for sleep by marriage and children. Even if I wanted to sleep until 10, that's a physical impossibility. I'm awake by 7, and if I loll around in bed for too long, my back starts to hurt. Even if I'm on some business trip and have no morning obligations of any kind, I can't sleep in. It's infuriating. I get up and walk around or go work out, and then I'm tired by 9 p.m. I feel like I'm 80 years old already. It's horrible. I remember back in the day when sleeping in was basically a sport.
ME: Bro, I slept in until 4 p.m.
FRIEND: Bro, I slept in until 5.
ME: Bro, I'm actually sleeping right now.
ME: Yeah, I'm sleepwalking. I'm not gonna get up until, like, 8.
I remember when we'd pregame, and we wouldn't hit the bar until, like, midnight. If I tried to do that now, I would have a stroke.
My kids still go to bed early and get up way too early, and I'm waiting for that moment to come when everything flips and they start sleeping in until noon and I have to throw a cooler full of ice water on them to get them to get up and get ready for school. That's coming. Somehow, it will be worse than my current predicament. They'll have crazy teen sleeping-in power, and I'll be enjoying the early-bird special before they're even out of bed.
Do you think any Oscar©-winning actress ever used her statuette as a dildo? Shoulders are kinda wide, but even just the head would count.
Probably, even if someone did it just for the hell of it. But I doubt that any actress has really gone to town with one. That's ice-cold metal touching your privates. It's funny for a second, but when you really need the job done, you call in the warm rubber dong. I would estimate that there have been more Oscar statues put in butts than Oscar statues put in vaginas. God only knows how many orifices Jack Nicholson's trophies have been in. The head of his 1975 Best Actor Oscar has probably melted off.
1) If a team has to throw a Hail Mary from, say, their own 30, why doesn't the QB take off his shoulder pads before the play? Wouldn't that help a QB throw the ball farther?
2) If you were given 20 magic "dinner cleanups" the day you were married (you snap your fingers and all the dishes are cleaned and put away, food in Tupperware, etc.), how do you think you would use them? Would you be able to save them for the holidays, or would you end up using a few on a random nights when you just don't feel like cleaning shit up?
1) It's against the rules to not wear shoulder pads on the field of play. Also, NFL players are essentially welded into their uniforms, so taking off your shoulder pads isn't something you can do easily before the play clock runs out. You gotta undo the buckles and futz with that one shoelace in the center and take off your flak jacket and un-tape your ribs and then separate the jersey from the pads, which takes 12 years because the jersey is tight as hell and stretched over those pads like a pool tarp.
Also, a lot of Hail Mary attempts end in sacks, especially when your QB is Mark Sanchez. You need to be protected.
2) You gotta save them for Thanksgiving and Christmas. Those are the two worst holidays for dishes, bar none. I'm all right to clean up the average night's dishes. Frankly, the wife and I argue over which one of us gets to wash dishes and which one of us should be stuck with parent duty. It's one of the few breaks I get.
But Thanksgiving is a different story, because you're drunk and stuffed, and the idea of doing ANY dishes is horrible, much less the goddamn Everest of plates that have piled up over by the sink. And Christmas is often just as bad, with the added insult of extra wrapping to do once the dishes have been scrubbed. I'd do anything to avoid those dishes. I would have the willpower to conserve my magic dish fairy.
My late grandfather was a general surgeon some time ago. He was a medic in WWII and, I presume, started practicing sometime after. Anyways, in his garage, in some boxes containing some old medical books, we found a jar containing what is undoubtedly a human fetus. I'm not sure what it was doing there. Was my grandfather some psycho or what? Was it a possible aunt or uncle? Why did it remain there? And what the hell do we do with it? Is it safe to sleep in the house with it?
I'm sure there's perfectly decent explanation for why your grandpappy had a fetus stashed in the garage. Maybe it was some medical specimen that he found interesting strictly from an anatomical perspective (check the fetus for a vestigial tail!). Or maybe someone gave it to him and he felt bad about throwing out an unborn baby. Or maybe he jacked off to it. I dunno. Anyway, if you are the official heir to the fetus (lucky you), you are free to sell the fetus or donate it to a hospital or deposit it into your local Biohazard waste bin. I wouldn't keep it. The only people who like having fetuses around are goth dipshits who watch John Waters movies and plan vacations around a trip to the Mutter Museum.
If a pit-bull-sized elephant, pit-bull-sized ant, regular pit bull, and Pitbull got into a fight, who wins?
Let's go ahead and rule out the pit-bull-sized elephant, since he no longer can use his size as an advantage. That leaves the ant, the dog, and Pitbull. I guess Pitbull would die next, although he might be able to win over the ant and the dog with his unique South Beach douche charms. Everyone says they hate Pitbull. But if you're hanging with Pitbull and he's passing out vodka bottles and commanding ladies to dance around you, you WILL have a real good time. Anyway, he gets torn to pieces.
That leaves the ant with Super Ant Strength (can carry whole picnic baskets!) and the regular pit bull, whose owner is probably over in the corner, explaining to people that Bloodripper is actually a really sweet dog. I'm gonna go with the ant. Those pit-bull fangs would have a hard time penetrating the ant's exoskeleton. Meanwhile, his giant mandibles would tear the dog in half. Ant wins. I hope global warming never produces Mega Ants. I would flee to the moon.
What if Mel Kiper had a son who was an All-American QB from some school like Texas and has all the talent to be a first overall pick, but he has an incredible amount of baggage? And weird stuff, too, like defecating in public constantly, saying racial slurs to white police officers, stealing chalk from Target so he can sniff it later, etc. How would Mel Kiper evaluate his son?
"You talk about a Mel Kiper III, you talk about a JaMarcus Russell level of arm strength. Big arm. Can throw the out routes. Worked in a pro system under Charlie Strong at Texas, so you know he can ADAPT at the next level. Needs a bit more touch on those deep posts, but you have to love his ability to deliver the ball in tight spaces. Little sloppy with his footwork. Not the kind of precision footwork you would see with the likes of an Andrew Luck. Someone's gonna have to work with him: say, a Gary Kubiak.
"Now obviously, bit of a conflict of interest here with his birth father, Boom. Birth father is a draft guru known for moving players up his board if he knows their agents. But comes from a strong family. Two-parent household. Father works for a living. Has the hair of, say, a Wink Martindale. Obviously, you're worried about some of the intangibles. The n-bombs. The six arrests. The time he shat on his girlfriend's pillow. He'll get dinged for those red flags. But if he can overcome those character issues, we're talking an easy top-5 pick, maybe no. 1 overall. I can see him going to a Cleveland and competing with a Johnny Manziel and possibly making a difference under a Mike Pettine."
Who do you think knew the most people in the history of the world? Let's define knowing someone as if you ran into them on the street, you would recognize them and know their name.
I was gonna say one of the popes, because a pope's job is to bless thousands of people every day while covering up horrible atrocities committed by underlings. But popes and presidents don't HAVE to remember any of the commoners they shake hands with. They know they're never gonna see those assholes again. Unless you're one of those liars who says you never forget a face, it takes a bit more to know people and remember them. You have to have some kind of memorable exchange or correspondence with them for the memory to really sink in. That's a bit easier in the internet age, when you can instantly connect with anyone anywhere and you have an avatar of their mug to stare at every time they tweet at you.
My guess is that the person who has known the most people in history is some asshole motivational speaker or brand guru who, as a business strategy, tries to remember and maintain connections with every single person they see. Someone like Tony Robbins, or some other asshole who has a million Twitter followers and follows a million people on Twitter.
Also, Vegas casino hosts. They gotta know everyone. It's how they fuck you good.
So, a coworker and I just went into the public pisser at the same time today, and when we were trashing our paper towels, we noticed an inordinate amount of candy wrappers in there. Like five or six full-sized (non-fun-sized; this matters to us for some reason) wrappers. This prompted us to ask way too many questions. Is there some mystery pooper who eats candy on the can? Do they eat it before or after they do their business?
What if it was the janitor? Cleaning toilets is hard work. Sometimes, you need to take a break and have a Clark bar. Or two. Or five. I doubt someone sat on a shitter and ate five Baby Ruths, because that would hit too close to home for anyone. My guess is that it was either some kind of party cleanup, or your mystery sugar addict bought the candy, ate it in a private setting (not on the can), and then put the wrappers in a public waste bin so that no one would look at his office trash can and start asking questions. Whenever I sneak candy, I take great care to hide the evidence. Receipts are burned. Wrappers are placed inside empty soda cans. No one can know of my love affair with a Charleston Chew.
Is it a moral obligation to put a little pep in your step while crossing the street when it's obvious there are cars waiting for you to get to the other side so they can make a turn? An ex of mine would berate me when I would practically jog when crossing the street so as not to inconvenience motorists, and I never quite understood her rationale. At least walk a LITTLE faster so you don't come across like an inconsiderate douche, right?
I walk a little bit faster simply so that the driver doesn't lose his patience and run my ass over. It's not a matter of courtesy. It's strictly self-preservation. Because when I am driving and I've been waiting forever to turn and then a bunch of pedestrians get in my way, I am unreasonably angry. Ever see a cab in New York get denied a turn by a swarm of pedestrians? Those cabbies are always right on the verge of committing mass murder.
Email of the week!
I'm in a stagecraft class. It's a small class where we get to spend afternoons building sets and props and learning to set up lights and sound, and there's lots of hanging-out time. We're also working on a production, so most of us are there after school as well. One of my classmates, "William," lived near school, so I drove him home pretty regularly. If I was pretty awkward, William took it to another level. He played Pokemon cards, D&D, wore dorky T-shirts, didn't shave enough, and always seemed a little greasy and needy. He made a lot of weird jokes and seemed to enjoy the "sociopath or comic?" line that he walked. One time he called me at home to talk about a class assignment, but then ended up telling me about these videos he watched online of people in Russia getting tortured, and how he also owned a lot of knives and throwing stars.
One day we're hanging out in the classroom abutting the theater when William comes in and asks me to check out something he's working on. We go into the empty theater, and he asks me to sit in the middle of the seats and he runs up to the light booth. It's taking a really long time, and I think it's weird that the theater is empty and dark, but then a spotlight turns on, pointing on the stage. After a second I realize there's a cut-out in the light, so it looks like the letter "W." There's a click, it goes dark, and then another letter: "I." And another click, "L." After the excruciating amount of time it takes to get through "WILL YOU GO," I realize where this is going, and I'm paralyzed.
Once we get through all 18 letters of "WILL YOU GO OUT WITH ME" (no punctuation), William turns on the house lights and comes down from the light booth to sit next to me. I see no way out but lies. I start rambling about how great he is but haven't I mentioned Peter, my boyfriend? He goes to a nearby school (this is fake, I wouldn't even have my first kiss until six months later). William handles it gracefully, and we go back into the classroom. My favorite class is now ruined with awkwardness.
Nerds, man. I always hoped he would make some D&D elf very happy. Or at least not torture anyone.
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 Sam Woolley.
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