Time for your weekly edition of the Defector Funbag. Got something on your mind? Email the Funbag. And buy Drew’s new novel while you’re at it. Today, we’re talking about marriage, our dying moron president, the NBA, dicks and balls, and more.
At one point in my life I was a “snap on fresh undies before leaving for work” kinda guy. Now I’m more of a “slip into clean under garments right before bed”-type dude. When’s the best time of one’s day to put on a fresh pair of undies?
I assume the pandemic has disrupted pretty much everyone’s underwear routine. But since I’ve always worked from home, my loose undie regimen has remained intact. So here it is: I get up in the morning and put on my daily blogging uniform of track pants and t-shirt. Then I eat breakfast and do some work. Then I work out mid-morning. AFTER that workout is when I go ahead and treat myself to a fresh pair of Hanes. Then I wear those same undies to bed at night and repeat the process the next day.
The only time I deviate from this routine is if I didn’t work out that day and need to take a shower (shower time is always new underwear time for me), OR if I get that not-so-fresh feeling down in my ass and balls. Not surprisingly, I get this feeling a lot. I live in a domesticated rainforest of a state. I get swamp ass the second the outside temperature ticks above 73. Sometimes I dribble pee after zipping up because my bladder is a trainwreck. And sometimes, even at my age, I’ll sit down on the toilet and discover, to my private horror, skid marks from the LAST time I sat on the toilet. All of those circumstances require fresh underwear, stat. Sometimes I have to make this change discreetly, because I would rather no one know WHY I’m heading upstairs in the middle of the day. But sometimes my wife is like, “Hey, where you going?” And that’s when I gotta fess up my underwear shame. If you’ve also been married for 18 years, you know that such confessions are the stuff of true love.
So let’s say Trump survives and has to quarantine with no staff and no help. Given a fully stocked kitchen, could Trump prepare himself a meal? Think he knows how to turn on a stove?
You saw the limo ride on Sunday. You saw the horror movie on the balcony last night too, right? That fat fuck would never accept full isolation, and no one around him has the balls to force him to. The guy couldn’t even zip his fly without a Youtube tutorial. He’s just a hopeless, dying piece of shit. And, as you have already seen, he’s gonna drag as many people down to hell with him before he finally chokes to death on his own snot. He ain’t sequestering himself inside the White House. He’s gonna invite Carl Icahn and 26 hookers over for a game of nude Twister.
But this is a hypothetical you’ve proposed in which Trump is somehow NOT a supremely needy baby who couldn’t ever fathom the prospect of having to be alone and self-reliant. This would be an entirely different person, mind you, but still a clueless one. So, with that in mind, if you stick Trump alone in a kitchen and he has to get his own food to prevent starvation, he’s not cooking anything, because he thinks cooking is for women and for “the gays.” He’s cleaning that kitchen out of nonperishables, frozen food, and lunch meat FIRST: salami, bread, Ellio’s pizza, fruit punch, whole bags of raw flour, etc. Cans would be lowest on the priority list, because can openers are tricky for this man. He would try to open a can of beans and accidentally cut his thumb off. Then, he would fire the can. Then, he would microwave that can to get it to open. Then the can would explode and break the microwave. Then, defeated, Trump would turn on the stove and immediately light the entire building on fire. Then his hairspray would catch flames and burn his scalp clean off, leaving all the nerve endings on top of his head frayed and exposed. Then he would pour hot top ramen on top of the burns to soothe them, only to end up in unrelenting agony. Then the ash particles floating through the air would travel inside of his infected lungs, cutting off the oxygen supply to his brain and rendering him unconscious. Then his entire body would become spontaneously cremated thanks to his own idiocy.
And then he’d step on a rake. That’s what would happen.
A little bit of a stretch here, but now that he’s got COVID, I could see Trump donating his plasma for a pre-election bump. What would you do if you got COVID and your doctor said, “We can treat you, but it will be Trump’s plasma.” Are you opening your veins to his plasma?
Hell yeah I would. This isn’t a Harry Potter book. I wouldn’t absorb Trump’s soul just by taking some of his donated plasma. I have received blood transfusions before. I did not ask if the blood in question violated the Blood Bank Hall of Fame’s character clause. I’m not gonna get Trump’s blood and suddenly start flipping around the TV looking for my face so because it’s now the only way I can achieve orgasm. I’m gonna say, “Hey, thanks for the blood, you piece of shit,” and then go about my merry way.
Can the NBA finally do the right thing and present the Larry O’Brien trophy directly to the players? I know the owners are all billionaire sociopaths, but even they have to recognize the significance of the three months the players spent in the bubble and not accept the trophy.
I actually went back and checked the Lakers’ Western Conference trophy ceremony to see if they handed that trophy to Jeanie Buss FIRST before anyone else, but TNT didn’t show the handoff on camera at all. Then I checked the Heat’s ceremony and Erik Spoelstra picked it up and handed it to Bam Adebayo. So, at least in the latter case, the NBA let the principals get their paws on the trophy before some asshole owner did.
HOWEVER, those are conference finals trophies and no one gives a shit about those. And just because the league has to do the right thing doesn’t mean it will. The reason the NBA painted Black Lives Matter on the bubble courts and, at least on a superficial level, took the rise of American Nazism much more seriously than any other sport, is because the players in that league hold more sway than players in any other North American sports league. But that sway only goes so far. These owners don’t give half a shit if Paul George got clinical depression from being stuck at fucking Disney World for months on end (for real, outside of prison, I can’t imagine a worse place to quarantine). All they care about is that they fulfilled their contractual obligations to the networks and to their sponsors.
Now that those obligations have been fulfilled, the winning owner will have, in scrappy billionaire fashion, gutted out the bubble season with true moxie (owners don’t have to stay in the bubble). And so … Tilman Fertitta voice ENGAGE … it’s only fitting that the business leaders who made the bubble happen get credit for giving all the little Americans some championship basketball when it was so desperately needed.
One of the great lies basketbloggers tell themselves is that the NBA is less a league and more of a good cause. It’s not. It’s owned by the same collective of deluded money addicts as every other league is. I am genuinely astonished that the bubble season worked as well as it did. It was fucking AWESOME. But I ain’t gonna build a shrine to Micky Arison in my living room because it was a success. In fact, I’ll go the full Bernie and tell you that all of these leagues have staged games using resources that the rest of us either have no access to, or that we can only access by maxing out every last credit card. The whole country should have been equipped to handle the pandemic as well as the NBA has. Instead we got fucked with a shovel. So it would be symbolically appropriate for Adam Silver to present the trophy to Buss first, just to remind you who’s really in charge here.
On The Distraction, you mentioned what a piece of crap Dr. Drew has turned into. I spent many hours listening to Loveline on the radio in college. The transformation from that Dr. Drew to a pseudoscience-peddling Trump cultist is a plot twist I didn’t anticipate. Is this something that happens to all white dudes in their 50s? I’m really scared for my future here.
Well it’s my birthday this week, which brings me that much closer to 50. So God only knows what awaits me on the other side of that corridor. I used to watch the MTV broadcast of Loveline a lot myself (featuring Diane Farr!), and I was always like that Dr. Drew guy seems really sensible. I remember some 16-year-old girl who called in was dying to get pregnant because she said she really loved babies, and Dr. Drew was like, “Yeah no, you’re not ready for any of that.” He was always calm and measured and reassuring. Then Carolla would slide in with a crack and then the studio audience and I would share a warm chuckle. Two decades later, BOTH those guys turned out to be complete fuckheads.
They’re both over 50 too, which is an ominous portent for someone like me who is both white and lives in the burbs. If you’d like proof of my emerging boomerism, you should know that I’ve come around on Joe Biden after spending the entirety of last spring virtually spitting in his face. Even now, when Biden has pulled negative ads and tweeted empty, Mayor Pete–approved platitudes about how WE ARE ALL AMERICANS, I grit my teeth and I’m like I fucking hate this shit, but it’s probably working. That trajectory puts me firmly in line to proudly declare myself “socially liberal and fiscally conservative” by age 50 if not sooner.
That said, Trump has thoroughly disrupted my natural evolution toward useless centrism. Despite my age and my tax bracket, I still very much want to storm the Capitol steps, pitchfork in hand, and drag every last Republican out of there so I can throw acid into their fucking eyes. If Trump dies from the rona, I’ll set off M-80s from my deck in celebration. One of the reasons I stopped writing politics takes for GEN was because I had nothing left to say. All I wanted to do by the end was post the Kill ‘Em All cover again and again. So if wingnuttery still awaits me, it’s gonna have to navigate quite a gauntlet.
And you know what? It won’t reach me. I’m too smart for that shit. Adam Carolla was always predisposed to become what he is now. You and me… we’ve got more going for us. Bob Mould told Roth and me last week that we’re gonna win this fucking thing, and who are we to disagree with the man? Let’s beat these fuckers and then never look back.
Shouldn’t the “home” team in all our crowdless sports venues be allowed to have a DJ or sound effects/PA guy control the cheers and boos? Each league could have a contest for most accurate and most effective.
Goddamn right they should. The NBA used its big Zoom board to create a fake home crowd for every game, replete with virtual home fans, chant prompts (WHY?), and shitty focus-grouped team slogans like LEAVE A LEGACY splashed across the board in quaking fonts. But there is never any fake booing piped in, nor is any virtual fan booing ever jacked up so that you can hear Meyers Leonard being shit on in real time. This is a shame, because why bother to replicate the atmosphere of a packed arena if you’re not gonna do it all the way? They’re just trying to make the coaches and refs feel good by censoring fake boos, but the control room should have a big red BULL-SHIT chant button ready to go the second a bad foul is called.
I was watching Vikings-Texans on Sunday and the Texans already had some real fans in attendance. Those real fans booed the shit out of the Texans because the Texans are fucking terrible. When they did, Chris Meyers said, “Those are real boos you’re hearing from the crowd. We didn’t pipe those in.” Ah but see Chris, you COULD have piped them in. You could have piped in more boos—all the boos—anytime Bill O’Brien elected to run it up the gut on second and a million (it was often). The televised product would have been vastly improved.
And yes, I’m aware that my team is a pathetic 1-3. Trust me, I would very much like to hear them booed by their own fake home crowd. When the crowd on site joins me in hating my own team, I feel a little less lonely in this crazy world. Those people get it.
I just got married today. I love [Borat voice] my wife [end Borat voice] very much. What advice would you give to two newlywed lovebirds such as us?
My best friend got married a year ago (happy anniversary, you crazy kids). So I may as well give you the three pieces of advice I gave him and his bride during my rehearsal dinner toast. They’re all fairly rote, even predictable. But they’ve served me well.
1) Never go to bed angry.
2) Never be cruel to one another.
3) Believe in each other, because there may be times when no one else will.
That’s about it. There are more practical pieces of advice. Don’t sell each other heroin. Don’t punch each other. Don’t berate each other in public (something the judge who married my wife and I noted when we were all at the altar). Be a solution for each other and not a problem. And, as my father-in-law warned me, don’t have separate bank accounts unless you plan on getting divorced.
But the big shit is to remember that you are each other’s shelter. This is an absolutely shitty world your blessed union is coming into. We need all the love we can get our hands on. So take your duties keeping each other happy seriously. Because when you fail to do that, it shows.
That was far too earnest of an answer. YOU SHOULD ALSO FUCK A LOT.
When you pee at a urinal, do you flip your dick and balls out, or just your dick?
Balls out too. I feel too vulnerable with just my dick hanging out of my zipper. Perching my scrotum upon that zipper serves as a handy reminder that there are metal teeth in my pants that are HUNGRY FOR ORGAN MEAT. It’s just the extra precaution I need. I say all that while knowing that I’ve watched There’s Something About Mary. I saw the part everyone else saw. But zipping your penis up is WAY more plausible than zipping up a whole testicle. I’ve had a dick and balls for 43 years now. I know the lay of my pants better than a hapless Ben Stiller character.
My wife has recently expressed interest in buying a boat. We both passionately hate Trump like any rational person would, so I am concerned. Will the boat slowly consume our personalities until we are Beautiful Boaters out there with 2,000 of the worst people in the world supporting whatever Trump is claiming the throne in 2024? And not to be a downer, but given the state of the world might we be better off turning into the kind of people who find joy in other people’s misery anyway?
I know Trump ruins everything he comes into contact with, boats included. HOWEVER, I would not let the idiot Beautiful Boaters ruin your dream of becoming an official Boat Guy. If you don’t think I yearn to become a Boat Guy myself, you need to start thinking it. Every time we visit Annapolis, I eye-bang that harbor with a middle-aged fervor that would frighten you and your next of kin.
We rented a boat this summer. Was the dock adjacent to the rental joint festooned in MAGA flags? You know it was. Did the guy at the rental counter wear a mask? You know he didn’t. Did we still have a kickass afternoon as a family? WE SURE AS FUCK DID. I ain’t about to let those people have boats all to themselves. Quite the contrary. I am going to reclaim the honor of boats all across this fair land by piloting one myself.
Except I will never ever buy one. If anything should spoil you for buying a boat, it’s the 98 percent of boat owners out there who will tell you NEVER FUCKING BUY A BOAT because of the expense and the upkeep. You’d think owning a boat would be a one-way ticket to becoming a Parrothead retiree. The harsh reality is you cleaning out bilge pump tubes and scrubbing algae crust off the hull until you start eating COVID pancakes to end your misery. I know about boat maintenance because (fancy boy alert) we had a boat when I was growing up. I had to bail it out with a sawed-off milk jug when the rains came. It sucked, even if going tubing on the lake after the fact kicked major league ass.
I even stole the boat once when my folks were out. I made an executive decision to take it for a joyride on my own. When I got it back home, I came too strong into the dock slip and crashed into one of the support poles. My parents NEVER mentioned it to me, and that’s as lucky as I’ll ever get when it comes to boat mishaps. Hence, I’m gonna stick to renting boats from here on out.
We are around the same age, so I assume you grew up watching the TV show ER on NBC. Anyway, if you were brought into the ER (like you were), can you rank the doctors you would MOST likely to work on you from best to worst? I’d say maybe Dr. Benton or Dr. Romano would be No. 1 and someone like Dr. Malucci would be toward the bottom.
I can’t believe there isn’t a Ringer podcast dedicated exclusively to ER already, or that ER isn’t somehow the No. 1 show on Netflix. This idiot country is already addicted to ancient intellectual property, and yet somehow Grey’s Anatomy is the shit my 14-year-old wants to binge-watch instead of a show that’s older but clearly better.
Anyway, my answer would be someone from the original cast, like Dr. Ross or Dr. Carter. Also, I had the hots for Sherry Stringfield back in college, so go ahead and add Dr. Lewis to the rankings. Dr. Romano was the one who got chopped up by a helicopter, yeah? He was an asshole. I require a doctor with a pleasant bedside manner, so Romano and the lady who had crutches can both go taste rotor.
I’ve spent some time as a bartender and the amount of people who ask for a beer and then are taken aback when asked for specification is staggering. True alien behavior.
I think TV and movies have tricked people into thinking that this is an acceptable way to order a drink. I know I’ve been looking over a drink menu in front of a waiter and then said, out loud, “You know what? I think I’ll just have a beer.” Then I’d order a specific beer rather than being like SURPRISE ME. But I’ve definitely pulled a Brett Kavanaugh and prefaced a drink order by openly announcing my intent to have “a beer,” just because I liked the sound of it. WHY YES IT’S ME, A BEER GUY. I LOVE TO DRINK NAMELESS BEER AND BE RUGGEDLY HANDSOME.
I don’t drink anymore, so I’m no longer a threat to irritate bartenders like Quinn by asking for a beer and elaborating no further. I’ll still mull over a food menu in front of the waiter and go WELL IT ALL LOOKS SO GOOD I JUST CAN’T DECIDE! like the yuppie asshole that I am. But I do try to make servers’ lives easier, if and when I can ever safely eat inside a restaurant again (2029). I want to believe that this pandemic has made everyone a little more sensitive to all the bullshit that waiters and waitresses and deliverymen and other essential workers have to endure. Sadly, I know the second the vaccine arrives, certain fuckheads will go right back to never tipping and demanding frozen mixed drinks that take 15 minutes to prep. But I promise at least I’ll be clear about which brand of ginger ale I want. Gimme the new BOLD ginger ale. Not anything like ginger beer, nossir.
What happened to Cameron after he destroyed his Dad’s Ferrari? I think his Dad killed him.
Oh yeah Cameron’s dad beat the unholy shit out of him. Cameron goes on to be a heroin addict and a deadbeat dad. NO DAYS OFF.
I’m an adjunct at a local college, and I teach basic introductory writing courses. With the pandemic, we have been holding classes on Zoom. This begs the question: what is the worst class to have to teach over the computer?
You saw the kindergarten teacher on TikTok, yeah?
That. That’s harder than teaching writing to a bunch of cooped up, horny freshmen. My wife was a preschool teacher in The Before and I have no clue how she summoned the energy to spend ten minutes inside that class, let alone hours at a time. And here’s this lady summoning that energy in front of a fucking screen, with both kids and helicopter parents staring back at her with dead eyes. Teaching, to me, feels like doing standup and bombing every single time you hit the stage. The only time I’ll ever teach is if some Ivy gives me a no-show job just so that they can say I’m on the faculty. The actual teaching part is beyond my grasp.
My kids are between 8 and 14, so I can tell you that the toughest classes of THEIRS I’ve seen taught are PE, art, and music. For PE, my son has to do jumping jacks in his room and shit. He made such a ruckus the other day that I came up and was like, “Hey you have to get back to class, young man! No more horseplay!” And he was like, “But dad, I’m in class.” That one really made me come correct. Alongside that, trying to get students to play the piano or make a fucking ashtray out of clay from a distance just seems impossible. I met my daughter’s art teacher and holy shit, was he ever prepared to teach them art from afar. But you still can’t SEE each other’s work in person, or hear each other music in the same space. And yet, the kids and the teachers are trying to educate one another on the fine arts in the midst of all this. I hate to get serious again, but those of us who are following protocol are gonna come out of this pandemic a LOT tougher than all of the shitbags who were too soft to acknowledge reality. That’s a goddamn fact.
Email of the week!
I posted this in brief as a comment to WYTS Saints (GUMBEAUXXX – with extra sausages), but in a moment of true hubris I’ve decided this is something I also want you to weigh in on. In early January a group of my friends and I descended upon NOLA for a bachelor party (for a sadly now-postponed/cancelled wedding) that ticked off all the standard bachelor party boxes. That’s NOT the important part of this story, shockingly.
I have a weird and extremely vivid memory which I keep dwelling on from the very end of the weekend, where it was just me and one other guy, hungover at the airport, and deciding to have poor judgment one final time and hit the airport bar. I’ve never actually enjoyed going to the airport bar, so I’m not sure why I did it this time. Anyways, we started getting real doom and gloom about depressing things – climate change, the state of US politics, the state of international politics, when we almost went to war with Iran (at that point, it had -just- happened, and I cannot believe that was this year), etc. On an offhand note, we both also started talking about that weird coronavirus we kept hearing about in China – maybe relevant is the fact that my friend and I are both biology researchers.
The vivid memory I keep having was one of us being like, “man, wouldn’t it suck if this is the one after we’ve just missed a global pandemic this many times in the last couple of decades?” We both kind of shrugged and ended up ordering another shitty, overpriced beer. It turns out that was my last overpriced, shitty airport bar experience – a mundane thing I never would have thought about ever again.
Now I miss going to the airport.