Praying For Car Accidents Is OK!S

Time for your Thursday edition of the Deadspin Funbag. Find more of Drew's stuff at KSK or on Twitter. Today, we're covering traffic, bridges, eating dog food, inhaling poop, oral, and more.

Big doings here at the funbag. Next week we'll be doing a bonus audio version of the funbag (Don't worry, the two regular ones will still run) with a very, very special Deadcast guest. So send in only your finest retarded questions about poop, boners, and snacking if you want in. Now, your letters.


Last night it was bumper to bumper and I was severely disappointed when I did not see a major accident or some sort of reason for the holdup. Is it wrong to be hoping there was an accident to explain all the fucking traffic?

Hell, no. An accident offers you hope that such traffic needn't be an everyday occurrence. But when there is NO accident, then the only explanation you're left with is that you live in a horribly overcrowded area, and that traffic will be miserable ALL THE FUCKING TIME. And that's terribly discouraging. Much better for you to discover the happy anomaly of an oil tanker overturned and seven children dead on the shoulder.

Whenever I get stuck in what I deem unusual traffic, I do three things. First off, I endlessly speculate aloud to my wife about what the cause of the holdup is. "There must be an accident!" Very insightful. Next thing I do is immediately look for some magic sign that will say, NEXT EXIT: EXACT SAME ROAD WITH LESS TRAFFIC, 1/4 MILE AHEAD. Such a sign does usually not pop up. Final thing I do is crane my neck to look for flashing lights to ensure that yes, there is an accident up ahead, and that yes, it is drawing nearer. SWEETNESS. Usually, there are no flashing lights in sight, and that's when I let out an audible groan. UGH, LOOK AT THAT. BACKED UP FOREVER. HEY, THAT GUY'S DRIVING PAST US ON THE SHOULDER! THAT'S NOT FAIR! GIMME THE ATLAS.

Sitting in traffic blows, of course. Oh, but when you finally get to the accident that's been holding you up… what a fucking cathartic moment. First off, you get to gawk at the accident and give a scowl to the asshole in a neck brace who's been holding you up. Then, you pass the accident and have that blissful stretch of free road in front of you, when everyone guns it and starts going fucking 90 to make up for lost time. It's like being at the start of the Gumball Rally. People can't get into the left lane fast enough. So fucking freeing.


Every time I drive over a bridge, especially one over water, I imagine that part of the bridge suddenly falls into the water. Then I wonder whether I could stop in time or if I could go Dukes of Hazzard and fly over it. It would work if you were on the incline of the bridge and built up enough speed. Probably not, I'd plummet into the water and drown. I hate bridges.

I have this fear as well, and I blame the '88 San Francisco quake, where part of the Bay Bridge really did collapse, and they showed footage of all the cars sliding down the collapsed section. That's pretty much all I picture any time I cross a bridge in a car. Simultaneously, I also do my very best to admire the view from the bridge while driving over it and keeping the car in a straight line. This is hard, as Driving 101 tells us that people tend to steer in the direction of where they are looking. Doesn't stop me from looking anyway. LOOK AT ALL THAT WATER! SO PRETTY!

Also, any time I cross a suspension bridge, I always, and I mean always, imagine walking up the truss (dunno if that's the right word, shockingly not an engineering major) of the bridge and having a knife fight with an evil Serbian warlord at the top. The end of View To A Kill, basically, minus the blimp. DANCE! INTO THE FIAHHHH!


I've probably tried almost every dog biscuit or food that my dog eats. I get curious, "Why does he like these hard brown pellet things so much?" or "Does a bacon flavored milk-bone actually taste like bacon." (In case your wondering the answer is no) Does anybody else do this, or am I just weird?

I've always wanted to buy a pack of Pup-eroni and snack away, but I've never had the guts to do so. At the mall I go to, they have a kiosk that makes special sweet treats for dogs. They have icing and everything, and they look fucking delicious. I always think it's real food before remembering that it's for dogs only. And then I get mad. Why do they only make treats for dogs here? FUCKING SEGREGATION.

Dog snacks only, though. I think real dog food, like the shit that comes in giant Purina bags, is the most foul-smelling shit on Earth. My in-laws have a dog, and he eats dog food that comes out of a can. You have to take it out of the can, cut it in half, and then mash up half of it for him. I can't do this without gagging. I feel like I'm cutting up a meatball laced with diarrhea.

Bon Scott Vivant:

I've always thought the biggest douche-move around the office is the practice golf swing. It's way too Thurston Howell/Chuck Schick. But I saw a younger guy the other day doing a practice jump shot. The jump shot is far more douchey, yes? They should both be mocked publicly and immediately.

They're both pretty awful. I think the pantomimed jump shot is worse if the guy leaves his right hand hanging in the air, annoying white guy style.

One exception to this: You can get away with the douchey sports mime if it's part of an invitation to play said sport. Like, let's say you want to play basketball with your friend after work. So you go to his office and you're like, "Hey Jim, after work, you feel like playing a little… (PANTOMIME THE JUMP SHOT NOW!)?" That's okay. Referee Mills Lane says he'll allow it.


Have you ever looked down at the bowl and realized that the remnants of three bodily functions are in the toilet all at once? For me, it usually goes something like this: (1) A happy jerk into the bowl (or into a flushable paper product, which of course is subsequently discarded into the bowl); followed by (2) a great moment in poop history; which inevitably is connected to (3) urination. If you have waited to flush, at that point you have three excretions in there at once and for whatever reason, I feel a huge sense of accomplishment whenever I notice I've done this.

But why stop there? You still have vomit, spit, blood, and snot left in your arsenal. All of those things are fun to watch swish around a toilet. Bloody tissues in the toilet just look so… sinister. If someone who is not me has left bloody tissues in the toilet and I chance upon them, I always react as if I've just witnessed a murder. ZOMG! It's not the same as finding poop or piss in the toilet. I expect those things. Blood in the toilet is like stumbling upon a Kennedy half-dollar. Just rare enough to surprise you each time.

When I bleed, I make sure to dot any bandage or tissue I'm using with as much blood as possible, so that it looks like I've bled A LOT. So dramatic.

One last thing about admiring fluids in the can: It is oddly fascinating to jerk into a toilet and see what the skeet ends up doing in the water. So chaotic! It's like looking at a little galaxy. I am easily amused.



Did you ever like Flintstone vitamins? I haven't had them in ages but almost bought a bottle at the grocery store the other day because I remember how much loved the things as a child. I would always try to sneak extra ones out of the cabinet when my parents weren't around. Even today I still love those chewable vitamin C's (even though I usually just opt for the ones you swallow). Why don't they make candies that taste like Flintstone/Looney Tunes vitamins? I would eat the shit out of those.

I had Flintstones when I was a kid, and I had orange-flavored Spiderman vitamins, which were tremendous. You should see some of the vitamins they have now for kids. Gummy bears. Gummy worms. Creamy gummi bears (sounds gross, tastes sublime). Gummi bears with little sour sugar crystals on them. My kid's doctor said those kinds of vitamins are SHIT, and do little for the kid. So really, they're just candy, INCOGNITO! Sneaky!


One of the urinals at work is being replaced and has been like this for 2 days now. How tempting is that bucket? It gets harder and harder to resist each time.

Praying For Car Accidents Is OK!

It's sorely tempting. But that is a world of splashback waiting to happen. I suggest picking it up to piss in it. So much more intimate that way.


I can't come up with anything that doesn't taste like shit after brushing my teeth, eating a grapefruit, or drinking cranberry juice.

I concur.


Do you ever pretend that you are hosting a cooking show when you cook? I find myself doing it all the time. Hell, even when I make something simple like quesadillas or an omelet, I'm fuckin' Emeril in my head, bamming everything and even fake orgasming after the first bite.

YES. I have the whole monologue running in through my head. "What I'm gonna do now is add a little extra virgin olive oil, just to add texture. You don't want to burn these onions. You just want them to get soft and translucent. Now we add the coconut milk…" I mouth the words sometimes. So fucking weird.

And I never stop being impressed with something I cooked. I mean, I just drone on and on and on and on. And Mrs. Drew is like, "Yes, it was very good. But can you shut up now?" And I'll be like, "But wasn't it good? Look at that crust. Look at how brown and crispy it got. That's restaurant quality right there." A fucking week later, I'll still be yapping about it. Even if it was something stupid, like eggs. I may like cooking shit just a bit too much.

White Thunder:

Does mouthbreathing in the bathroom and surrounding area cause you to eat fecal matter? And if so, does that make it wrong? I, for one, always mouthbreath around the crime scene. I don't want to smell what happened, but at the same time I fear that I could be eating poop. What's your take?

I don't think you're eating feces if you choose to go the mouthbreathing route, even though it may feel that way. If that were really the case, we'd all be high on Jenkem all the time, people. And that's just not true.

Regardless, I always take the top of my shirt and place it over my mouth and nose to form a makeshift surgical mask, to filter out any possible airborne poopiness. But then I'd have poop in my shirt! GAH! IS THERE NO END TO THE CONTAMINATION?!


Say you are single again, at this very moment (sorry Missus Drew). If the one woman you wanted to have sex with the most told you "I will have sex with you and fulfill your wildest dreams, but first, you must eat this hot dog covered with my pubic hairs". You can't use any condiments on the hot dog, so you can't go ahead and douse the hot dog in ketchup and mustard, and for reference sake, the pubes are about 1-2 inches in length. Do you do it?

How much pubic hair? Is it stacked high on the dog, or is it just a fine dusting? I'd be worried about the ability to simply swallow that much hair if it was a lot. I dunno if that's possible. I might need a Coke to wash it down or something. In which case, sure. Yeah, I'd eat the pube dog. You only live once. I'm sure I've eaten a pube that was not my own at some point in this life anyway. Probably every time I hit Taco Bell.


When getting soup for lunch and afforded free crackers in the basket next to the soup, how many packets of Saltines is too many? I think I border on the inappropriate. I usually grab at least 9 or 10. I used to try to do it quietly so no fellow customers could see, but now I don't care. I'm wide open about it. How many is too many?

There is no such thing as too many. Few things in life are free. When you see free crackers, you fucking take advantage. Show NO mercy, especially if they're oyster crackers. When it comes to free packets of crackers and condiments, I grab two fistfuls, just like I'm in a treasure cove and digging into a pile of gold coins.


College student, playing intramural flag football. I'm going up against the team featuring the guy that cheated with my admittedly hot ex-GF (not surprisingly broke us up). Do I go for the blatant, illegal, cheap kill shot to his balls or take the high ground (whatever that may be)?

You're in college. The high road is for grownups. There's only one thing you can do: Challenge that fucker to a race down the K12, and then beat him while skiing on only one ski. Then, when your hot ex decides to ditch him and go back to you, you give that bitch the Heisman and take off with the French exchange student next door who fixed your old Camaro.


Mrs. Betty Draper:

As a girl, I grew up under the impression that oral sex was this elusive and far too rarely performed sex act that all guys always wanted. While in practice, my girlfriends and I have found this to be true, recent revelations have put my longstanding theory to the test.

The other night, the guy I am seeing told me that while he likes getting a BJ as much as the next guy, he has never, as in ever, had an orgasm strictly from oral sex. Needless to say I was shocked. I told him this was crazy, and of course made it my personal goal to put an end to this foolishness. Obviously, he's game.

His argument is that this is normal, and that when this subject has come up with his male friends, the inability to ejaculate strictly from oral sex is fairly common. My argument is that this is horseshit. As someone who writes a column called ‘Balls Deep' I figured you might be able to provide some guidance. Is this a common affliction? And if it's not possible for some guys, dear god why?

I dunno. Anatomy? Everyone's different. I'm sure the guy would LIKE to skeet whenever he gets head. But he can't. But that shouldn't stop you from trying! Suck away, lady! Suck with all your might! Draw blood if you must!


Do you ever get in pretend arguments with folks in other cars. I don't mean do you just get angry at them, I mean do you actually imagine a full on argument you are having, like what you think might happen if you got out of your car and started jawing. This happens to me all the time, I need to get over and put on my signal and the guy won't let me in (because I am a great driver and that guy is a douche), so I speed up and squeeze and make him apply his breaks a bit and then I'm like, "Well you saw my turn signal!" "You just couldn't let me? Huh?' "Really? Really?" And then I find myself actually getting really mad and angry and I am arguing WITH NOBODY. Man do I feel like an idiot.

I get in pretend arguments with EVERYONE about everything. If I'm mad at another driver, or my boss, or my wife, or my dad, I will rehearse, in my mind, precisely what I plan on saying to them: A withering series of putdowns that shows them they were extremely wrong and shames them for ever having said what they said, or gotten mad at me for that thing they got mad at me for (all my planned arguments are usually in rebuttal to someone getting mad at me for doing something retarded). Anyway, I will quietly say these arguing points to myself while I stew alone. Then the person will show up, and I'll either say nothing, or I'll offer an olive branch. I'm such a puss.

Cars are great for this, because I'm isolated and all alone. No one can tell that I'm practicing having it out with someone (or they can tell and I don't give a shit). I probably should drive less.


Man, you're a bitter, little person, aren't you? Did the members of the golf team where you went to high school or college kick the shit out of you? Did you get nailed in the head when Judge Smales threw his putter again?

There is no heckling in golf because it's not football, baseball or basketball. Why does it have to be? Can't there be one sport with an ounce of decorum, unlike the others, fueled by testosterone, beer and ignorance by tatted-up, backwards ball-cap wearing frat punks?

Christ, so golf has one serial philanderer. The NFL has players who kill other people (Simpson, Lewis, Little, in case your memory is short). They draw on each other in NBA locker rooms. Half the guys who played Major League Baseball in the 1990s now have testicles the size of raisins.

PS: You can get into Augusta National if you're Jewish. You can't if you have multiple piercings and barb-wire tats on your pipes.

So much to enjoy about that email. Especially the, "tatted up, backwards ball-cap wearing frat punks" line. Please sir, don't forget that those non-golf savage sports also have any number of ragamuffins, rapscallions, and rascals of ill repute, who have been known to frequent speakeasies and partake of alcohol and games of chance. Thank goodness we have golf, which an oasis in this SEA OF MADNESS. With no players who have tattoos (except Tiger Woods), no miscreants who wear their caps backwards, and no fraternity brothers of any sort (Tiger Woods was Sigma Chi).

God bless this man for showing us all why the world needs golf. Whitlock approves wholeheartedly.

Say, this is the perfect time to transition to a GREAT MOMENT IN POOP HISTORY. Reader NB sends in this story I call POOP ON THE WATER:

My dad told me a story this weekend. Apparently, it was the late 70s, and he was at some concert. While he was at the show, he sharted and decided he needed to go to the bathroom to assess the situation. Once he was in the stall, he realized that his underwear was completely ruined. He did not, however, want to take off his jeans ("A real bitch to undertake in bell bottoms," he explained) and shoes in the disgusting concert-hall bathroom.

Because he was clearly sober, he came up with the perfect plan. He takes out his lighter and proceeds to attempt to burn his underwear off with his jeans still on. This plan appears to actually be working, until, of course, his jeans catch on fire. He begins screaming and trying to put the flames out. In so doing, he hits the wall of the stall so hard it collapses, and he falls onto the very floor he had been trying to avoid, flaming pants and underwear fully exposed. The fall apparently tore the underwear enough for him to get them off, and he says the rest of the concert was "fucking great."

Now, if you would please excuse me, I need to seek therapy.

Well done, pop. Before I go, a quick reminder. Tonight I'm at the Gordon Biersch Brewery near Cardinals Stadium in Glendale AZ around 8PM. Come one, come all. Friday night I'm judging the Red Bull Chariot race in Tucson (at O'Malley's bar). See you there if you're around. Especially you, Garry!