Time for your weekly edition of the Deadspin Funbag. Got something on your mind? Email the Funbag. Today, we’re covering taco enemas, board games, wiping, and more.
Before we get to the Funbag, a couple of housecleaning notes. First off, it’s gonna be a shortened Funbag this week, because I am technically on vacation. (A vacation with kids, of course, is no vacation at all.) Also, tonight at 10 p.m. is my appearance on Chopped over on the Food Network. Screengrab my big fat head at your leisure. YOU CAN’T HURT ME.
Now, your letters.
If they were to switch jobs, who would be more liked ... Goodell as president (of the U.S.) or Obama as NFL commissioner?
Goodell. For all the bitching we ELITE MEDIA FLYERS do about Roger Goodell, the majority of football fans think he’s fine and enjoy it when he punishes those no-good players by making them sit over in the corner for two hours. Goodell is basically the wet-dream Republican candidate. So chiseled. So plain-spoken. I bet 50 percent of elderly voters would kill to have him replace Obama. Put him in the Oval Office and you’ve got a redux of the W administration. SO MUCH TOUGH TALK. Wait until Goodell suspends Iran for eight weeks. It’ll be a crushing blow.
At his core, Goodell is a politician. His dad was a politician (you may have heard), and every decision he makes is framed in hoary political clichés about doing the right thing. Frankly, I bet he’d love to run for office one day. I bet people have asked him. I bet there’s a Republican operative with an Easter basket filled with thousand-dollar bills ready to back him the second he decides to vie for a New York Congressional seat. You know you’d make a great politician when this many people already hate you.
As for Obama, who wants some namby-pamby liberal in charge of FOOTBAW? Conservative fans would hate him, naturally. And liberal fans would hate that he decided to become a shill for 32 owners. WILL HE MOVE THE RAMS TO KENYA?!
Would you rather shove three soft-shell tacos up your butthole or one hard-shell taco?
I guess the soft-shelled tacos. I don’t want any scraping or cutting on the way in. Either way, those tacos aren’t holding their integrity upon insertion. The hard taco would break up into shards (GAHHHHHHHHH!), and the soft taco would tear and leak refried beans all over your fingers (ew!). But I could probably get the three soft tacos up there (I’d go with chicken over steak), and then shit them right back out and go back about my business. Even if the hard taco softens up inside my colon, I don’t wanna take my chances upon extraction.
I am getting married next year, and I have yet to decide on my groomsmen. I think I’ve got it pretty much figured out, but I need to know one thing: Am I a dick if I don’t ask my brother to be my best man? He will absolutely be in the wedding party, but I don’t want anyone to think I’m some sort of savage for NOT having him as my best man.
Have two best men. I’m pretty sure I had two best men at my wedding (and my brother had two at his) to solve this problem. You have a best friend, and you have a brother, and you don’t want to offend either of them, so you make them co-best men. No guy’s gonna complain about that arrangement, and if he does, then he’s a catty dick. In fact, sharing best-man duties means that one of the best men can shove all the best-man duties onto the other best man, and he can do likewise. And then both men assume all the bachelor-party prep work was done by the other guy, and then there’s no bachelor party at all. Now that’s good cooperation.
Yesterday I tweaked my back while dribbling a basketball. I wasn’t even running. I turned 30 last year. This is the beginning of the end, isn’t it?
Yep. Every move may be your last. Some days, I’ll just be walking around, minding my own business, when BOOM! Terrible neck spasm. Or my hip will just, like, feel like it’s sliding out of place. I have to wear Merrell shoes all the time to give my back the proper support, or else walking is dangerous. The entire staff of this website laughed at me for wearing these shoes. They are assholes. When they turn 40 and have to walk around in dipshit orthopedics, I will be there, ready to pounce. And then I will hyperextend my shoulder. I hate everyone.
If you were meant to wipe standing up, then why are all toilet-roll dispensers always at the sitting level? This settles the sit/stand debate, surely.
Damn. He got you, standers. What do you have to say for yourselves now, you freaks?
By the way, my kid is a stander now. He takes a dump, stands up, turns TO the toilet (dangerous!), and then does his business. I’m always too stunned to correct him.
I’ve had my high school varsity jacket hanging in the closet for 20 years now. My question is, what do I do with it? It seems wrong to just throw it out, and I can’t really donate it because it’s got my name embroidered on it and I doubt someone would want it anyway. So ... what the heck am I supposed to do with this thing? Lug it around with me from house to house for the rest of my life? Give it a Viking burial?
Obviously, you should wear it during intercourse. Apart from that, keep it in your closet. Just because you won’t be able to wear it in public doesn’t mean you can’t wear it in private. So many memories in that jacket. Once in a while, you should down half a bottle of whiskey, throw on some cool old tunes, and rock that jacket while Facebook stalking Betsy Nash, the girl you felt up back in 10th grade. Who’s gonna know? NO ONE. That moment is for you and you alone. You deserve it once in a blue moon.
If board game boxes were reinforced with steel, wouldn’t the corners still bust apart? And what’s the trick to stacking all those broken, different-sized boxes without causing an avalanche every time you pull out a game?
In the beginning, I stack the boxes from largest (on the bottom) to smallest (on the top), which makes sense. But then I pull a game out of the middle of the stack, and I play it with the kid, and then the game ends, and the kid runs away from the table without cleaning anything up. And then I have to pick up all the shit and put the game away, only now someone is screaming in a different room, so I have to put the box on TOP of the stack to go attend to the juvenile assault going on. And then I never go back to fix the stack, and then the process repeats itself, and then one day my child is brained to death by a steel Chinese checkers tin.
The point is: Board games with children SUCK. They are a nice alternative to screen time, but they are fucking agony, even the simple ones like Candy Land. All of them have very small pieces that will get lost or burned. Your child will always tear the box, rendering it useless (I think we keep Monopoly in a Ziploc bag now). The kids always fucking cheat, or bitch when they lose. And playing the game takes FOREVER. Forever and ever and ever and ever. My back is withered by the time we’re done. I can’t do it. No more board games. Please go ride a bike.
If you had to choose one room in your house to live in for the rest of your life, which would it be? You would never be able to leave the room after you made your decision, and the room would be frozen in its current configuration. For instance, you couldn’t install a range or microwave in your bedroom, and if you chose the kitchen you’d either have to shit in the sink (I sure hope you have a garbage disposal!) or into an old coffee can, and have your family dispose of it for you. Small changes would be permitted—a family member could give you pillows and blankets—but no major changes, like installing a 50-inch TV in your bathroom.
You gotta take the bedroom. There’s no other choice. There’s a reason that cheap hotel rooms and jail cells are essentially single bedrooms. That is the most necessary living space. If you can’t sleep comfortably, you’re fucked. So I would pick the bedroom, hang out there with my phone, order Seamless, and then shit into a bucket and dump it out the window. I’d be like a princess locked in a castle turret. WILST THOU SAVE ME?!
It’s tempting to pick the TV room and just sleep on the couch, but if you’ve got the internet, the fixed TV isn’t exactly all that necessary anymore. Confined to bedroom house arrest with HBO GO, I could finally catch up on Game of Thrones. OH MY GOD THAT ONE FAMILY IS FEUDING WITH ANOTHER FAMILY [poops into chamberpot]!
Email of the week!
Back in high school, I coached my little brother’s rec basketball team. One of the perks of coaching a fourth-grade basketball team (besides yelling at little kids to get back on D like you’re Bob Fucking Knight) was that I could have my friends come and help with practices and games as "assistant coaches."
One of the assistant coaches I brought in also happened to be a girl I’d had a crush on for years. I thought there was no better way to impress this girl than to show that I a) really cared about the kids, and b) was a macho tough guy by screaming “SHOOOOOOT!” and “PAAAAAASSS!” at these kids in front of their parents on Saturday mornings. Foolproof.
The basketball season bled into prom season, and I made up my mind to finally nut up and ask her to Junior Prom. But an ordinary invitation just wasn’t gonna cut it. No, dude, I’m a romantic. I was gonna show her that I wasn’t like those other dickweeds. So, prior to practice one week, I placed a dozen roses behind a big stage curtain of the elementary school’s dual gym/auditorium where we practiced. After practice, I asked if she would hang back for a second after the kids got picked up and I nervously sprung into action. I stood behind one of the curtains and handed her the roses one-by-one through a break in the curtains, with a word on each one that wrote out “Will you go to the prom with me” and then four question marks (because that added up to 12 flowers). With stunned embarrassment and the look of sheer terror, visibly trying to fight off either laughter or tears (still don’t know which—but does it even matter?), she said, “I’ve got to go, I’ll think about it” as she ran out of the gym.
She didn’t help coach any more games.
Drew Magary writes for Deadspin. He's also a correspondent for GQ. Follow him on Twitter @drewmagary and email him at drew.deadspin.com. You can also order his book, Someone Could Get Hurt, through his homepage.
Image by Jim Cooke, photos via AP and Getty.
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