Time for your weekly edition of the Deadspin Funbag. Got something on your mind? Email the Funbag. Today, we’re covering lost jackets, serial killing, neck strength, and more.
Before we get to the Funbag, a couple of things. First off, to commemorate the paperback release ofSomeone Could Get Hurt, I’m gonna do a reading at the Dodge City bar here in D.C. on Wednesday night. We’ll start around 8:30 p.m, and I promise not to read for too long, because no one ever likes the reading part. After that, drinking. If you want a book signed, I strongly recommend bringing one, because there may not be books on sale at the bar.
One other thing: I did that whole How to Suck post last week and forgot one last crucial suck point: If you’re having a conversation with someone and you really want to suck, be sure to talk exclusively about yourself and NEVER ask the other person how they’re doing. I am consistently amazed at how many motherfuckers out there treat the other person in a conversation like a fucking TV camera. I’ll talk to someone for, like, an hour, and then I’ll walk away and be like, Wait, that asshole didn’t ask me anything about me! I’m not even sure he knew my name. It’s like an illness. So if you’re droning on and on about your job to some poor bastard at a cocktail party, take one minute to pause and actually listen to another human being. No one wants to hear your tiresome horseshit.
Time for your letters:
What is the trashiest location for a tattoo on a woman? I instantly thought of the tried and true "tramp stamp," but that isn’t it. I narrowed it down to the tattoo on the top of the foot and the absolutely awful "above the breasts" tattoo. I’m not sure if there is a slang term for either of those, but they are both terrible.
My trashiest tattoo rankings would start like this:
1) Above the breasts
2) Top of the foot
5) Tramp stamp
What about on the labia? You know you’ve a got a party when your lady has a tattooed labia. Anyway, I’ll agree with the top of the titty for maximum trashiness, particularly if it’s a very large tattoo. Two breasts simply weren’t enough: You had to throw a fucking dragon up there to get me to look. That’s quality. Here’s what my rankings look like:
- Top of the boob.
- Side of the head. Like when you shave one side of your head and tattoo something there? I already know you play in a band I won’t enjoy listening to.
- Fingers. Especially if you’re using your finger tats to spell out something, like LOVE or HATE or PORK.
- Inside your lip.
- Literally on your ass.
- Teardrop under eye.
- Front of neck.
- Back of neck (like when you sweep your hair over to reveal a tattoo of the Phish logo there).
- Tramp stamp.
- Top of the foot.
- Right down your side.
By the way, when it comes to tattoos, I’m a complete hypocrite. I bitched out that one columnist who ripped on Colin Kaepernick for having tats. Meanwhile, I’m a suburban white dad who will view himself as a complete fucking failure if his kids get inked up. If you told me I could pay $1,000 bucks to insure my kids never get tats or fucking nose rings, I’d pay it. I’ll TOTALLY judge you if you get a ring of thorns tatted around your flabby-ass bicep. Who’s your daddy, tattoo boy? YOU ARE NOT FIT TO LEAD.
By the way, I’m always amazed at how many tattoo magazines exist in the world. Go to New York and you’ll see entire newsstand racks devoted to shitty tat magazines. I feel like there are mergers in the tattoo publishing industry that should have taken place long ago.
Who’s the next athlete ESPN obsessively covers once Manziel flames out like Tebow?
Oh, Jameis Winston. It’s not even close. He could end up winning two Heismans and two national titles; he may have committed sexual assault; he stole crab legs; he has a stupid nickname (Famous Jameis); and he’ll go way high in the draft next year unless teams are put off by the whole "he may have committed sexual assault" thing. He’s like a First Take episode in human form. Your stance on Jameis Winston is a litmus test on sports and racism and sexism and 500 other annoying topics. I hate him already.
I guarantee you that, prior to next year’s draft, a large number of bravely anonymous NFL scouts will tell Peter King that Winston is only a marginal talent and has BIG question marks. Why, I wouldn’t draft him until round five! A lot of these scouts treat hyped prospects like hipsters ripping on a popular album. Purple Rain is only minor Prince, I tell you.
Which defensive player will be the first to do Manziel’s signature "Counting Money" move as a sack dance when they drill him into the ground?
They play the Steelers first, right? Sounds like Lamarr Woodley’s Jason Worilds’ domain to me. Maybe the Steelers will deem themselves too classy and PITTSBURGHISH TO THE MAX to taunt Manziel like that, but I doubt it. There’s nothing that phony-classy fanbases love more than giving a cocky young opponent a taste of humility. Tear his head off to teach him a lesson about how to conduct oneself, LamarrJason!
Does Aaron Hernandez count as a serial murderer now?
Possibly! One of the definitions of serial murdering from the FBI is "the unlawful killing of two or more victims by the same offender(s), in separate events," which is precisely what Hernandez is alleged to have done. This is not a definitively agreed-upon definition by serial-killing experts (I imagine them all drinking black coffee and poring over photos of dismembered corpses scattered on a very large conference-room table), but if you would like to accuse Aaron Hernandez of being a serial killer, no one could tell you that you’re 100 percent wrong.
However, I have my own specific definition of serial killing that comes from watching awful TV shows and movies for over three decades. To me, a serial killer is a middle-aged white dude. Thick glasses. Probably a little soft around the middle. Killed and tortured animals for sport as a child. Due to some kind of horrible childhood trauma, the serial killer now spends his days working at a job that requires relatively little social interaction (no one suspects the sewage plant worker!), and his nights stalking and killing WOMEN or VERY SMALL CHILDREN. He has a painstaking selection process (not unlike NFL scouts!), and will spend months if not years planning every ritual murder. And he’ll totally have a signature move or weapon. Like a bowie knife or something. Pentagrams will also be deployed.
And then the serial killer breaks into your house and drags you to the basement and ties you down and performs strange sexual experiments on you and then cuts out your inner organs and eats them and makes you watch an iPhone video of it. Then he beats off on your corpse. And he smiles when he does it, which is really fucking creepy.
THAT is what I picture a serial killer to be. This is why I am not scared or disturbed by Aaron Hernandez. I just think of him as a garden-variety murderous scumbag, like a Mafia hitman or something like that. There’s something far more reassuring about that kind of killer. Oh, he doesn’t choose his victims randomly. He kills his friends! For some reason, that doesn’t chill my bones. But it should! It’s not like a serial killer who kills three people is somehow worse than any other murderer of three people. This is why the broader definition of serial killing is useful. It reminds you that ALL murder is scary. I’m sure Odin Lloyd was just as terrified when he was killed as any other murder victim. I would personally prefer that all my murderers kill for something OTHER than pure pleasure, but that’s irrational on my part. I probably shouldn’t have watched Zodiac so many times.
What happens if a sex tape comes out a year from now where Michael Sam is banging a chick?
Then I’d have to wait a week until the extended version of the tape popped up on Kimmel, with Kimmel jumping into the frame, pointing to the insertion footage, and giving you the finger.
In all seriousness, I think a Michael Sam sex tape could easily be explained away. He could just say it was an old tape and that he was still sorting things out. Rest assured, he’s ALL gay man, folks. It was just a phase, he swears! DON’T SHUN HIM!
What is the long snapper of instruments? We recently started piano lessons for our seven-year-old girl. I’m beginning to think this is a really dumb idea since she effectively has no shot of ever performing at a high level due to the intense competition. What is the instrument that one would have the highest chance to perform at a high level with the least amount of inherited musical ability? Oboe? Harpsichord?
I was gonna say the triangle, but no symphony employs a dude to just man the triangle. That’s the job of a multi-tasking percussionist who also has to man the chimes and the kettle drum and the gong. Sometimes I’ll see footage of a symphony and the percussionist will have to stand there like a pud for five minutes before nailing the gong at the exact right moment and I’ll think to myself, Hey, I could do that! But no, I would fuck that up. Probably 5,000 drummers applied to bang that gong.
I can’t play any instrument, so I’m taking a stab in the dark here, but my guess for the luge of instruments would be the tin whistle, which is basically a glorified recorder. It’s got six holes. You don’t need any lung power to blow into it and make a noise. There’s no tricky reed for you to drool all over. Seems easy enough. But of course, there are probably five million micromanaging tin-whistle parents out there thinking the same thing. Only one can be the next Sean Potts! If only there was a shortcut to achieving his legendary stature.
My oldest kid takes piano lessons. I have no illusions about her becoming a famed concert pianist or composer. But we went to a talent show at her school a while back, and some of the kids could rip off Mozart concertos with their fucking eyes closed. And then I felt like a terrible parent for not forcing my kid to sit at a bench with a stern piano teacher for 40 minutes every week, working on tedious scales. So we set up lessons. She now plays "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" with only a couple of botched notes. HARVARD HERE WE COME.
I always wished I could play an instrument. There’s no better way of instantly impressing people than picking up an instrument and unleashing a torrent of gorgeous melodies. My God, it’s a side of Jim we’ve never seen before! It’s like when Bill Murray takes lessons in Groundhog Day and blows Andie MacDowell away when she discovers he can play. Man, that looked badass. I’d pay three dollars for that ability. Why does playing an instrument have to be so fucking hard? I hate working.
I think I figured out what to do with the dunk contest. What if they replace it with "Dunk Month" and award $5 million to the best (internet votes or something) dunk during some month that otherwise goes unwatched, like February? Obviously, the dunk has to be in-game. I would be entertained.
Yeah, but the NBA would never go for this, because then you’d have 80 players passing up the open man just to get an extra shot at the $5 million. You’d turn every team into the Knicks, basically. You’d ruin the product in order to draw in five extra casual fans who will STILL just wait for the highlights anyway. I say you just replace the ball in the dunk contest with a cat and see what happens.
As a high school student, I consider myself to be fairly experienced with the other gender. I have been in multiple relationships, but there is one girl back from wayyy back in my early middle school days I can’t seem to shake from my mind. I have always had feelings for her for some reason. I want to confront her about it as we still remain in frequent touch. Despite the fact that I want to focus on other girls, I can’t seem to. I am seeing her more often now despite being at different schools. What should I do?
I love that first sentence. I want to email that back to you 20 years from now. "I’m 17, so I think I know my way around a vagina now, guys."
Anyway, I have two sons, and I’m already mentally preparing my speech for when they turn 13 and meet a girl and want that girl so badly they’ll nuke the rest of the fucking earth to ensure that they’re the only people left remaining. And then that girl will reject them, and it will take them, oh, let’s say a solid decade to finally get over it. The worst part is that I already know this speech of mine will fall on deaf ears. I’ll talk to them about all the fish in the sea, and that leverage is the willingness to walk away from the negotiating table with nothing, and they’ll just roll their eyes the whole time. LOUSY FUTURE KIDS I OUGHTTA SMACK YOU GOOD.
When I was in middle school, I went bonkers for one girl. I told her I loved her a zillion times. I called her at all hours of the day, sometimes even singing to her. One time she slow danced with me and I got to smell her hair and wanted to eat her. I loved her. I loved her. My stomach hurt, I loved her so bad. She kept turning me down, and instead of moving on with my life and mingling with the other three billion females on earth, stupid teenage me was like I DON’T WANT ANY OTHER GIRL OTHER GIRLS ARE SHIT IF I DON’T HAVE HER I’LL FUCKING DIE. You can’t tell a teenage boy anything because they’re brain dead. I can’t begin to tabulate all the misplaced rage and self-loathing I felt simply because I was rejected by ONE human being. That bitch! Women are bitches! I’ll kill them all! It’s like a serial-killer origin story. God, I wish I could get in a time machine and beat the SHIT out of me.
But I don’t know that it would do any good. The only way to gain confidence with women is to spend years and years fucking up with women until you stop giving a shit, at which point women come flocking in DROVES because you care so little. If only I had done more drugs as a youth. It would have really helped shift my focus. My advice to you is to ignore the girl and start selling cocaine. She’ll be on your jock within minutes.
Professional teams always require players to pass a physical before signing. What do these physicals entail? Just a ball-grab and a cough? A set of rigorous conditioning tests?
If it’s a standard physical examination, you probably get your heart and lungs checked, your blood pressure measured, your hearing and vision checked, your reflexes tested (I want to buy a reflex-testing hammer), and your blood taken. No one wants a player with the siffy.
I have to think that NFL teams are a bit more thorough in their exams, perhaps to the limit of what their collective-bargaining agreement says is acceptable. If I were signing a guy, I would want a full body MRI, a CAT scan, a genome-sequencing run, and an underwater-treadmill test. I would also want to put him through an American Ninja Warrior-style obstacle course to make sure he’s in quality condition. I would bombard him with x-rays until the bones fell out of his skin. But I don’t think NFL teams do this. I think that, in general, NFL teams spend 1 percent as much time scrutinizing free agents as they do college players. Like they’ll spend eight days evaluating Johnny Football’s Instagram account. But when some big-name wideout hits the open market? DURRRR I’M TIRED OF DESEAN JACKSON BEATING US PAY HIM $20 MILLION DURRRR.
Do you think the world would be better or worse off if all of the world’s alcohol just suddenly disappeared one day?
The world would be worse off, and I’m not saying that flippantly. I know full well that alcohol has destroyed many, many lives. Millions. Tens of millions. Maybe more. But take a look at the list of countries where alcohol use is more or less prohibited: Afghanistan, Iran, Libya, Pakistan, etc. Those places aren’t exactly thriving without booze. As the standard comedy trope goes, maybe Iran would let its hair down a little with a few Straw-Brr-Ritas in it.
Even if you make all the alcohol disappear, you’re not magically eliminating all the REASONS why people feel compelled to drink. There’s usually an impetus for drinking. You drink to excess not just because it’s fun (it is!), but because you’re lonely or unfulfilled or because that one girl turned you down in middle school and GOD IF ONLY SHE HAD GOTTEN TO KNOW THE REAL ME. If you get rid of alcohol, people will just find a new vice to comfort themselves: drugs, guns, the systematic disenfranchisement and widespread physical abuse of dissidents, and such and such. Besides, the world is already overcrowded. What are we gonna do with 30 million extra sober, healthy people who otherwise would have died from liver failure? I’m not paying into their Social Security. Fuck that.
I play high school football, and recently my coaches decided to make us do a new exercise at the end of each workout. We will either a) put a 25- or 35-pound plate on our forehead or back of our head to work our neck muscles in moving our head forward and backward, or b) wrap a resistance band around part of a rack, put our head in it, and move to each side to work our neck muscles. They told us that this will help prevent concussions. Am I obligated to politely tell my coaches that they are complete dumbasses, since having a strong neck will not prevent our brains from banging around the inside of our skulls, or should I keep my mouth shut and just continue faking the exercise?
You mean they don’t also make you do the neck machine in the "old decrepit Nautilus machine" section of the local gym? That was the machine my coaches preferred. It works all four sides of your neck! You can neck-lift 200 pounds if you really lean into the fucker. I liked to snap my head to one side and then really strain to push the sweaty face cushion over to the other side. The fun thing about it is that now my arms don’t work.
NFL players have much stronger necks than you, and yet this does very little to prevent them from sustaining concussions. But your coaches are clearly too stupid to understand this and too stupid to have their methods questioned. Oh, you don’t want to have your head tied to a drag racer to increased necktoid strength? I GUESS YOU DON’T REALLY WANT TO BE PART OF THIS TEAM, SON. Thank God those guys were certified by the NFL Heads Up program! I assume they have doctorates as well.
How long into a president’s term does it take for the prez to feel comfortable farting in front of his Secret Service agents? I think it’s around two months.
I say he has favorites that he farts around and others that he withholds gas from. Like maybe he and Stan the Agent hit it off right from the get-go. He’d be farting in no time. But then there’s another agent who’s a real humorless prick about everything. I bet the president only shares his farts with a select few.
Which one team do you most associate Phil Jackson with?
The Bulls, but that’s because A) he won more titles with the Bulls than anyone else, and B) I grew up in the Michael Jordan era. If you’re a little bit younger than me, and your formative years coincided with the Lakers’ run of dominance, then I wouldn’t blame you for thinking LAKERS whenever you see Phil and his massive shoulder pads lumbering around a New York City sidewalk. Likewise, if you’re some old guy from New York and the ’70s Knicks are your favorite wet dream, then you associate him with the Knicks. Thankfully, we don’t have to sit around for eight years arguing which hat he needs to wear in the Hall of Fame, because the Basketball Hall of Fame is lame as shit.
What profession or cause could someone take up today in order to leave the greatest positive impact on the world? Author, actor, musician, athlete, politician, humanitarian, inventor, other?
It has to be inventor or scientist, right? Politicians are all corrupt. Actors are useless. Authors are self-absorbed assholes. None of those people are going to save us. In fact, they’re probably expediting our destruction. Our only salvation will be some guy with an advanced engineering degree who figures out how to harness unlimited energy from ant muscles. The rest of us are worthless. If I really cared about my future grandchildren, I would drop everything and start studying glacial melt right this instant. But that’s very tedious and annoying. Best to leave that to some NERDY NERD NERD and go enjoy a hamburger instead. Mmmmm… tastes like Armageddon.
Email of the week!
Nearly six years ago (February 29th, 2008 to be precise), I lost my favorite jacket. It was a late night at Carol’s Pub on the North Side of Chicago, and in my drunken haze I left it at the bar. I have never regretted anything more. The jacket was similar in weight and composition to . It was light-weight and durable, fit me perfect, and great in the rain and cool weather. I’d love to recommend the brand to anyone, but trouble is I can’t tell you the label. I found the jacket on overstock.com one night for $80 but I did not make note of the manufacturer. It also did not have any discernible markings like that obnoxious Mountain Hardware logo.
I have gone to the ends of the internet to find it, but have never been able to locate another. It truly was one of a kind. But the best part about the jacket? Everyone was super jealous they didn’t have one. It was that awesome. People would constantly ask where I got it, to which I would reply, "Sorry, dude, can’t help." I felt so powerful having something that no one else could possibly own. It was like having my own unicorn or dodo bird or playmate girlfriend. I got it, you don’t. As much as I loved the jacket itself, I loved the attention it brought me even more.
Then came that fateful leap day and my world was flipped upside down. Will I ever be happy again? Am I a horrible person for enjoying the jealousy of others? The only other person on this earth who could possibly relate is the bastard who found it at Carol’s and is undoubtedly wearing it right now. If that person is reading this Funbag, I have a message for you: Cherish that jacket with all your soul. And fuck you.
I want this jacket.
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 and Jim Cooke.
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