Time for your weekly edition of the Defector Funbag. Got something on your mind? Email the Funbag. You can also read Drew over at SFGATE, and buy Drew’s books while you’re at it. Today, we're talking about romantic sandwiches, Todds, bad luck, choosing your own death, and more.
Your letters:
Doug:
A while ago I saw an article about a new trend going around TikTok of "burping your house.” It's basically just opening windows each day to air it out. I thought this was some BS someone came up with to get a million likes but then I saw that, in Germany, this is called Lüften and has been around for decades, if not centuries. Even though we live in Massachusetts, my wife and I have begun doing this daily. It does make the house feel fresher, and also it’s perked us up (even if the temperature in the house drops 10 degrees during those 10 minutes). Knowing that your wife is German, is this something she regularly practices in the Magary household?
YES! She does it all the time. I wasn’t always a fan, because I’d run to our bathroom to drop trou and then WHAT THE FUCK WHY IS IT 40 DEGREES IN HERE? My wife would crack open just about every window. Then I’d close them all back up. Then she’d crack them all open again. She’d even crack the windows open in the car when it was below freezing outside. I called her the Fresh Air Bandit. I even got our kids to start calling her that. Long marriages are built upon such petty conflicts.
The twist is that I had no clue that my wife’s habit was a German thing until we took our kids to Germany this Christmas. Everyone in my wife’s extended family cracked their windows, even though it was deathly cold outside. So I said to my wife, “My god, you’re all fresh air bandits!” When she explained it was a German custom, and not just some weird shit her family did, I suddenly got it. We’ve been married for 24 years, by the way. I probably should have known about lüften sometime around 2000. But no, my wife had to take me to literal Germany to help me connect the dots. Ach! Then we came back to the U.S. and, days later, I saw an article in the Washington Post (RIP) about the house burping trend. What were the odds, I ask you?
Why did I tar my own wife as the fresh air bandit? Well, because I’m a spoiled little American boy who needs every space I occupy to be exactly sixty-nice degrees or else I act like I’ve been shipwrecked. I was just being whiny about my wife’s lüften habit because I wanted to be the big manly man in charge of window cracking in our home … and also because of the cold bathroom thing.
But those were flimsy reasons. I do enjoy the taste of fresh air, and I prefer a chilly bedroom at night so that I can snuggle all way under the covers. So I told my wife that I was joining team lüften, and I did. I burp the house now. I’ll even burp the car, although not if I’m driving fast and the wind is going all WOOOOWOOOOWOOOO through any open window. It’s always good to be in physical contact with the world outside of my little bubble. It wakes me out of my daily torpor, plus it helps prevent me from pitting my shirts out.
Kristopher:
Do you actually think you could take Urkel?
In a fight? Not right now. Jaleel White is exactly my age (49), and is probably all ripped these days so that people don’t automatically think of him as Urkel, even though they totally do anyway. 2026 Jaleel White could beat my ass.
HOWEVER, White was only 12 years old when he first appeared on Family Matters as Steve Urkel. I could take that Urkel. I’d stuff his skinny ass into a garbage can and then break his nerdy face with the lid. Whether or not I could defeat later Urkel (White played the role until he was in his early 20s), or his smooth-talking alter ego Stefan Urquelle, is in greater doubt. Also, I’ve never watched Family Matters. I just remember Al Powell from Die Hard was in it.
Ben:
The only Oreo opinion that's not ok, and which almost caused me to end a 30-year friendship, is the opinion that the cookie is better than the cream filling. I fell out of my chair hearing this. My only response was that it couldn't be true otherwise you'd see packages of Extra Cookie Oreos in stores.
This reminds me of when I smoked hashish with some friends in 1997 and we got into a heated argument over whether the most important ingredient in ketchup was the tomato or the vinegar. It’s an argument that, like most stoner arguments, is designed to go nowhere. You need the tomato AND the vinegar to make ketchup ketchup. Same deal with an Oreo. It’s not about the cream or the cookie alone, but the complex interplay of the two. Like Jerry Rice and Joe Montana, you know? You can’t divorce the accomplishments of those men from one another anymore than you can rank the two main Oreo ingredients. Take a hit off this hash pipe and mull it over.
By the way, if you ever see me end a long-standing friendship over food takes, go right ahead and start me on the Alzheimer's drugs.
Steven:
Drew, you and Michael have it all wrong. Staples are terrible, paper clips are okay, but binder clips are the absolute best! You all need to get on Team Binder Clip ASAP!
Whoa whoa whoa. Slow down there, playboy. Did you see me lionizing paper clips at the expense of binder clips? You most certainly did not. That was strictly as clips-versus-staples question, and I treated it as such. If I had gotten all snooty and been like, “Well actually, there’s a third option that’s superior to the other two,” you would’ve broken into my house (through a cracked window) to steal all of my crap. I’m not having that. Shoo fly, shoo.
Anyway, I like binder clips. Did I spend my cubicle-farm days pretending that the big binder clip was an alligator’s jaws? Did I then clip it to my own finger to see if I was man enough to handle the pain? Fuck yeah I did. I wasn’t a very good office worker.
Michael:
I know you recently lost your father, and my old man isn't doing so well anymore. Do you have any advice for how to handle the whole thing?
Not any advice that I can guarantee will be usable on your end. Every family is different, and everyone grieves differently, pre-grief included. All I know is that, in my case, I went right into servant mode when things started going badly. I went up to see my old man as often as I could, helping out with bedside care, housekeeping, getting our proverbial affairs in order, and making all of the big decisions that, as a family, you never want to make.
I didn’t always feel useful. I certainly didn’t always feel good. But I put in the work, which is all you can really do. For the sake of everyone else in your family, you keep on going, putting one foot in front of the other. And you wanna know what’s weird? I kinda liked it. Not the “someone you love is dying” part, but the work. I felt like, at last, I was repaying the labor that my folks put into caring for me. The circle of life plays out in front of your eyes, and you come to regard it as sacred. I really like doing good deeds for the people I love. And then, I really like to chill out and watch some TV.
Michael:
Not really fun, but what you supposed to do when your dad is a fucking idiot and won't help himself at all?
This is a different Michael from the last one, in case you couldn’t tell. No two Michaels are alike, either. Anyway, what do you when your dad is a fucking idiot and won’t help himself at all? Well, in that case, you smack him upside the head with a frying pan. Or you just ignore his worst qualities and, while in his company, try to model what NOT being a fucking idiot looks like. But I still think the frying pan is the way to go.
Todd:
Last week, in response to [also a different] Michael's hypothetical road rage battle, you said to your fictional adversary, "Suck my balls, Todd! This whippin's for you!" Hey, wait a second there, buster! My name is Todd. Does this mean us Todds of the world are the people you most want to beat the crap out of? Do you see us as universally bad? Granted, I know jerky or quirky characters in movies and TV always get stuck being a "Todd," but I think we're really ok guys for the most part. Maybe we can meet up at China Garden and talk this over (that's my attempt to get China Garden mentioned in a third-straight bag).
Achievement unlocked, Todderick. I have zero doubt that you’re a perfectly good hang. But you’ve been done dirty by pop culture, by right-wing meme-ographers, and by all of the real Todds in this country who suck major ass, like Todd Haley. I doubt that the analytics say that being named Todd automatically makes a person more likely to do some road rage. But everyone who has dealt with a bad Todd never forgets that he was a Todd. It’s just such a perfect name for a dickhead. So short. So curt. So Todd. I’d also throw Chad into this bucket, but that name has since turned into its own ongoing meme that I am both still kinda flummoxed by and deeply tired of.
Anyway, this stereotype isn’t fair to all of the regular Todds in the world, our Todd up above included. Maybe we should be nicer to our Todds and finally address The Michael Problem instead.
Matthew:
On a typical day in the USA, how many cell phones are accidentally dropped into toilets?
Thousands. Everyone uses their phone on the toilet, and not everyone is vigilant with phone safety. The next teenager I meet who doesn’t have a cracked iPhone screen will be the first. Until just a month ago, I could claim superiority to all of these careless phone owners. I had never cracked my phone screen, and I had never dropped my phone into a toilet.
Then I went to take a shit at a rest stop on the Garden State Parkway. When I got up to flush, my phone slipped out of my pocket (oh the irony) and fell right into the bowl. With my bowel movement still unflushed. I quickly fished my phone out, wiped it down all over, and then washed my hands 57 times. Then I went back over the phone with a Wet One when I got back to my car. It kept on ticking. I didn’t even have to do the rice thing to get it working again. Also, no one will want to touch my phone anymore because it might still have my feces on it. Sweet! I should drop this thing into my own shit more often!
HALFTIME!
Steve:
Why is Bill Simmons still relevant? I don't understand.
I don’t even know what relevant means anymore. Is Bill Simmons relevant? Am I? What even makes someone relevant in the cultural sense anymore? Will asking multiple rhetorical questions in a row make me more like Chuck Klosterman than I intended? Is there any good way out of this paragraph now that I’ve started it?
Anyway, Bill Simmons was once the most influential blogger on the Earth. He is spiritual godfather to every online sportswriter who has followed in his wake (me). I think that gives you relevance for life. Simmons may have essentially retired from writing because he’s lazy, but he’s also now a centimillionaire who holds sway at one of the most powerful media companies on earth (Spotify), and he can occasionally get guests on his podcast to say newsworthy things. That makes him currently relevant in more tangible ways, especially to all of The Ringer employees he’s stiffed out of a decent paycheck.
But if you’d like to feel a little bit better about the whole thing, no one under the age of 30 knows who the fuck Bill Simmons is. Those people have all adopted newer online heroes, like MrBeast. I’d call that progress, but this country is where progress goes to burn.
Michael (I swear I’m not doing this on purpose):
You obviously cannot choose how you die. But if given a choice, almost everyone would choose a heroic death in which they save their family from some tragedy. For this question assume you are alone and will die alone with nobody there to witness your demise. How would you choose to go out? Nothing in your sleep either.
First of all, I would NOT choose to die a heroic death to save my family. I’d prefer that my family never require rescuing, and I’d rather die at home in bed than fighting the Balrog. Know what I mean? I don’t want my death to be a fuss. I wanna peace out nice and easy, with minimal cleanup in my wake.
Because, as I may have mentioned once or twice, I already DID die alone, with no one else around. When coworkers found my body, they had to deal with an unholy mess surrounding it. I barfed right on Barry Petchesky, man. Right on him! I feel horrible about it. He should be entitled to barf on me in retaliation (I will not let him barf on me in retaliation).
So while I’m glad I didn’t feel anything when I collapsed, I don’t like that everyone who was nearby had to go fetch a bottle of Clorox and a valu-pak of Bounty to deal with my shit. If I had the chance to plan my own, solitary death, I’m buying some of those kickass euthanasia drugs they have in Europe, and then having a certified doctor administer the shot right after giving me a heady dose of morphine. Or actually, heroin. Let’s go crazy and make it real deal heroin, so that I can die a rock star. That sounds way more relaxing than having to save my family from ICE or whatever.
Michelle (huzzah!):
I have just started a really wonderful relationship with someone I met online. The other day they told me, "I thought about you when I was placing a big sandwich order earlier," which I don't have to tell you is pretty fuckin' hot. They told me earlier today that, when we meet in person the first time, they’re bringing me the sandwich. They live like, 45 minutes away so it's not like it would be gross by the time it got to me. Obviously I'm in love, but my question is: what is the most romantic sandwich your lover could bring you? For the record, the sandwich in question was a Chipotle BBQ chicken sub with bacon, cheddar, tomato, onions and cilantro. The photo they sent me really sold it.
Wait a second here, Michelle not Michael. Is this a chain sub that your catfisher is talking about? Because that would be weak as shit. No date has ever been impressed by a Jimmy John’s order, and you won’t be either. If it’s some local greasy spoon that only makes that sub in its own specific way, with giardiniera and other kickass toppings piled onto it, then you’ve found a keeper. You deserve a real sandwich, not a bullshit one.
As for me, the most romantic sandwich any woman can bring me would be an Italian sub … while she’s wearing a French maid outfit. Now that’s how you win the heart of Big Daddy Drew.
Jake:
My 2025 was wonderful and full of love, happiness, and great meals. In addition, it was mostly marked by having the worst flight luck of my life. I didn’t even know a flight could leave the gate, get cancelled, and then go back to the gate, but it happened to me three (3!) times in June. My year closed out by leaving two days late from my parents’ house. What are your beliefs on luck? How can I, in 2026, reset this horrendous luck with flights I have been having? Is everything just falling apart in the airline industry and it feels like it’s happening to me specifically?
Well, we know already that America’s flight infrastructure is being strained beyond its already limited capacity thanks to the Trump administration doing Trump administration shit. The same thing is about to happen over in Iran, where President Shingles started a war, with a country roughly three times the size of Texas, without having proper military assets in place for it. Every public service in America is currently underfunded, understaffed, and under-maintained. So when every flight you take ends up stranded on the tarmac for 19 hours, that’s not karma punishing you. That’s our shit-for-brains president working his magic.
Luck is, otherwise, a byproduct of randomness. A fumble bounces this way instead of that way. A drunk driver smashes into your car because you happened to share the road with the wrong person at the wrong time. Your burger arrives at your table still raw on the inside. But human beings are rarely satisfied with “shit happens” as an explanation for why things go down the way they do. They’d much rather ascribe such things to luck, and then pretend that bad luck only happens to them. Or they turn to religion and then ask why God is bullying them. Talk to any sports fan if you’d like to see this dynamic play out in real time. It’s natural to feel like the world is out to get you when you’ve had a shitty day, but it’s more freeing to accept life as it comes and then go with the flow. A glass of wine usually helps in that regard.
Chris:
I recently watched the film adaptation of Stephen King's The Long Walk. With regards to the rules of the contest, how long are you lasting? I think I could make it a couple of days before shitting myself mid-walk and dying (spoilers!).
Feeling chesty, are we Chris? I’m a dedicated walker, to the point where I once hit over 30,000 steps in a single day. I love walking all over cities, and up small mountains, and along sandy beaches. But the reason I can walk relatively long distances is because I know that I can always stop … to rest, or to buy a snack, or to grab an Uber back to my hotel. Point a rifle at my head to make me walk 500 miles, and suddenly I’m not quite so hardy. I wouldn’t last 24 hours on The Long Walk. Shit, I’d be lucky to make it half that long. Same goes for the rest of you, because Americans are soft.
By the way, I loved that book and am afraid to watch the movie because I suspect that it’s fucking terrible. Lemme know if I’m mistaken.
Ignacio:
With the recent events surrounding the US men’s hockey team, I find myself grappling with my Panthers fandom. Matthew Tkachuk has transformed the team into a champion and I have loved the past few years since he has arrived. But my god, his adoration of MAGA and his unrepentant-ness about it has really bothered me. Especially as I have LGBT relatives who are deeply impacted by the current administration. He has become the most unlikable player on an admittedly unlikeable team (Bennett, Marchand, etc). So should I keep rooting for the Panthers, meaning I support such a chud, or do I try to distance myself?
Do you WANT to keep rooting for them? That’s really the heart of it. You will never find a men’s pro sports team that has uniformly good politics. You won’t find a league that has them, either. So you have to decide if the moral compromise is worth it. Given that you now have two straight Stanley Cups in your memory bank, I’m guessing that your inner sports fan wins out over your inner Bluesky user. I’ve cheered for shitbags on my favorite team, and they haven’t won dick! I’m the one who should be having second thoughts here, Ignacio!
I get your instinct, though. Things feel different now that Trump 2.0 is openly burning this country down. If you really want out of Panthers fandom, then ditch them. I wish that my heart was as pure as yours.
Email of the week!
Mark:
A few years ago, I was giving my then-18 month old daughter a bath. I had finished cleaning her and was sitting back looking at my phone while she played with her bath toys. After a few minutes, she started saying in her adorable little baby voice, “Feet... feet!!" I assumed this was toddler nonsense, so I said, "Good, honey!" and kept scrolling. But she got more insistent. "Feet, daddy! FEEEEEEEEEET!!!!!!!" So I looked into the tub and, about six inches away from her little baby feet, was a perfect little brown turd about the size of my thumb. There was only one course of action: bare-hand scoop that little turd out of the bath, throw it into the toilet, then drain the tub and wash her all over again. Eighteen months is apparently not mature enough to know better than to shit in the tub, but mature enough to warn your dad about it.
This is growth.
