April 9, 2009
Would you eat a shoebox full of dandruff?
Okay, so, not to be a jerk about it, but if you say no to this one, you’re kind of answering it wrong. Because (and again, I don’t want to be a dick here. If you hate money, you hate money) you’ve taken in far worse things than dandruff before. If you are breathing at this very moment – and I’m guessing you are – the kind of disgusting stuff you’re breathing in is a lot grosser than just dead skin flakes. And actually, like, 70 percent of it is dead skin flakes (people are constantly shedding their skin all over the place – it adds up to about 1.5 million flakes per person per hour), mixed with stuff like the carcasses and feces of dust mites (the tiny bugs that live in your bed and your carpet and your furniture and eat your dead skin), bacteria, mold spores, toxic chemicals and other microcrap that can cause asthma and general annoyance. Plus, you’re constantly eating totally yucky things. There are rat hairs, insect heads, maggots and bug eggs in every food product that you buy – and those are the ones the meet the FDA’s standards! (A full list of what’s permissible is here, but this less heady general breakdown is a good cheat sheet.) In fact, one study found that Americans unknowingly eat about one to two pounds of bugs and bug parts a year – and bugs are tiny, so imagine how many of them it takes to equal two pounds. I hate to be a bummer, but I (and you, too!) already consume an awful lot of really nasty things, and there’s nothing I can do about it. Dandruff seems like a fairly innocuous meal in contrast, and at least I have some agency in deciding to eat it. So I say yes, yes, yes to this dare! I would absolutely eat a shoebox full of dandruff for one million dollars. And frankly, I’d do it with a smile on my face and a song in my heart. One you’ve eaten bug poop – and we all most certainly have – dandruff is cake.
April 8, 2009
Would you French kiss Shane MacGowan, deeply and passionately, for a minimum of a minute per kiss, twice a day – once immediately after he woke up and once just before he
fell asleep passed out – every day, for a year?
Jeepers. It’s hard to know where to start with this one, so I guess I’ll start here, with an inside view of Shane MacGowan’s mouth (pay close attention right around the :30 mark; there’s a close up of it there.). If ever there was someone who does not fear the Cavity Creeps or Yuck Mouth, it is Shane MacGowan, lead singer of the Pogues and the original Pete Doherty. Never a man to turn to for dental advice, MacGowan has pretty much said fuck you to toothpaste and dental floss, opting instead to embrace a life free from the tyranny of daily brushing and regularly scheduled visits to the dentist. The Tic Tacs that once filled his mouth have rotted down to his gums, and those which MacGowan did not erode away with constant boozing have been destroyed in more creative ways: Two were knocked out when he drunkenly fell over a wall while attempting to vomit up booze; a bunch of others fell out in 1996 when, according to longtime girlfriend Victoria Clarke, MacGowan tried to eat a copy of the Beach Boys’ Greatest Hits, Vol. 3 LP while tripping balls on acid. (Congratulations, Vicky! Hold on tight to that one!) I have a pretty good feeling that his mouth first thing in the morning is absolutely rancid, and that in the wee, shitbombed hours before he turns in, it might best be described as putrid. Add in the chronic halitosis caused by non-stop drinking, puking (at a 2002 concert in Dublin, he threw up on audience members in the first row) and tooth decay, and I’m sure it smells like an animal that sleeps in its own dung crawled down his throat and just fucking expired there. Oh – I almost forgot – have you seen If I Should Fall From Grace? The documentary about The Life of MacGowan? You should, if only to see him drool into his beer as he slurs poetry and to watch spit fly from his mouth as he laughs at his own jokes. And you know what all that adds up to? A no on this dare for me. I get nauseous just thinking about that smell, a sickening stench that stays with you all day long, no matter how much you try to brush or gargle it away – and then you have to go back for more at night! No. Thank. You. I’m sorry to be such a wimp but I don’t think I could keep food down. It would be a road straight to a cavernous state of depression for me.
As a bonus, I want to share with you a story a friend told me years ago. He’d gone to see the Pogues (or the Popes…I don’t remember now) and, of course, everyone there was singing along and all that, when MacGowan suddenly left the stage. The band played on for 20 minutes while audience members wondered aloud where he’d gone and if he’d ever come back. When he finally reemerged, Shane MacGowan ran onstage, grabbed the mic, and shouted, “Ahhhh…there’s nothing like a good shite!”
So, again, in conclusion, no. No. No.
April 7, 2009
Would you go five rounds with a boxing kangaroo?
I would fight a variety of wild animals for a million dollars (no, really. I would.) but, holy crap, have you ever seen a kangaroo box? Basically, they knock you out cold first thing and then just keep kicking your ass once you’re down. And if you think you can bob and weave your way through a fight with a kangaroo you are sadly, pathetically, assbeatenly mistaken. I promise you, that kangaroo is going to jab you right in the face real quick-like and then he’s going to start kicking you with his super duper strong hind legs, just like in 1) nature and 2) Looney Tunes cartoons – the ones where that baby kangaroo would beat the holy living crap out of Sylvester. You know who learned this the hard way? These three people – and that kangaroo had a rapport with two of them! I mean, that’s what it’s like when a kangaroo goes easy on you, for god’s sake! Kangaroos mean business, and when you set foot into a ring with them you better know that. Because you are going down.
Also, who the hell fights kangaroos? I mean, aside from people living in the 19th century? I guess there’s been some weird kangaroo boxing going on in Shanghai in the last few years, but that seems to be some isolated and totally bizarre thing. You want to know why animals attack? Because one minute you’re just hanging around in the Outback with your joey eating shrubs and stuff and the next you’re in a g.d. ring with human boxing gloves tied to your paws and some guy in a clown suit all up in your grill. I’d knock that clown out, too, if I had kangaroo strength.
I guess what I’m trying to say is, my money-lusting animal brain wants to say yes to this dare but my sense of self-preservation says no. So I’m torn – I guess I sit directly on the fence on this one.
April 6, 2009
Would you keep all your urine in sealed glass jars, Howard Hughes style, for a year?
Who’s to say I don’t already? Maybe I’m one of those
eccentric millionairesses batshit crazy indigent shut-ins who just loves spending rainy Sundays counting my many, many mason jars full of sweet, sweet honey-colored urine – my very own urine! Maybe, you only think my fridge is full of jars of beer and sweet tea but, really, those are actually jars of my urine. Maybe, I’m really proud of everything I’ve ever made — not just the stuff I built with my own two hands* — and I like to look around me and also see all the wonderful things I’ve created with my bladder. And my kidneys and my urethra. And my ureters, too. Maybe I like to look at each of those jars of pee and think, I made that, and remember a simpler time — a time when I peed into a jar.
But maybe not. Because, actually, I think that shit (or urine — get it?) is pretty gross. So, no, I have not been collecting my pee, but that’s only because I’m not the kind of person who would collect pee for free. I am, however, the kind of person who would collect pee for money. For one million dollars, I would be more than happy to only pee into glass jars and then seal those jars tight and then use them to build a wall of liquid amber in my apartment. For a million dollars? Easy, peesy.
* Just kidding. I’ve never built anything with my hands.
April 3, 2009
Would you live in a house built on an Indian burial ground for a year?
If your life was a horror movie, here’s a list of things that would ensure your death by the next scene:
- Going to check out that strange noise in the basement
- Following your cat into the basement, where it’s headed because it heard a strange noise
- Ignoring those menacing prank phone calls
- Having sex
- Taking your friend up on his offer of a weekend away at his family’s secluded cabin in the woods
- Exploring said woods
- Ignoring the advice of the town crazy person when he or she becomes strangely lucid on the subject of how you need to get the hell out of there
- Using an ancient book to conjure up demons
- Taunting inbred locals
And then we have the granddaddy of Horror Movie Death Predictors that this dare relies on: having anything to do with an indian burial ground. When some hapless family or greedy developer attempts to move in or build condos, you know they’re gonna get it but good. Still, this is real life we’re dealing with, not Zombie Braves of Doom #7, so I’d be willing to give this a try. Maybe I’d end up with a phantom tomahawk embedded in my skull, but maybe I’d merely end up a million dollars richer. I’ll play the odds.
I would do this dare for a lot of reasons (i.e., money), but I would definitely be nervous about it. As I mentioned before, I am a bit of le crackpot. Which means I believe in ghosts — and while I 1) like the scary, freak-me-outness involved in actually living in a haunted house, 2) it kinda makes me wanna puke, too. Still, pukey or not, for a million dollars, I’d pack up and move in today. And for another grand I’d have a t-shirt made that said I’D RATHER BE DESECRATING INDIAN BURIAL GROUNDS RIGHT NOW.
April 2, 2009
Would you have one of your eyes replaced with a glass eye?
You known what’s pretty fucking bitchin’? Eye patches. You could be like, the biggest dork on the planet and an eye patch would turn you into a dangerous, mysterious, one-eyed sexpot. If you think eye patches are only for pirates, you need to get hip to the jive, Poindexter, and take a look at all the famous eye patch wearers throughout history. Q: You know what they have in common? A: Nothing really, except for the fact that they’re all cooler than you. There’s Patch, from Switchblade Sisters (“Hey – I lost my eye for this gang!”), Elle Driver (Quentin Tarantino’s attempt to sneak a fake Patch into one of his own movies. J’accuse!), Bushwick Bill, Your Mother (YA BURNT!), Danger Mouse, Slick Rick and Sammy Davis, Jr. See? All better than you. I really wasn’t lying.
Comparatively, the list of glass eye wearers is pretty piss poor. Sandy Duncan and Sammy Davis, Jr. — who was clearly trying to milk his cool points by wearing as many prosthetic eye parts as he could (We are not amused, Mr. Jr.). Anywho, I’m going to have to say no to this one because I NEED BOTH MY FUCKING EYES AND DON’T WANT THEM VIOLENTLY GOUGED OUT.
So, yeah. That’s a no for me.
While there is no way that I’d say yes to this (come on – what if something happened to my remaining good eye? I’d be blind, for chrissakes!), I feel compelled to point out that Peter Falk and Ry Cooder both belong on the list of glass eye-wearers, and they up the cool factor by like, a zillion.
April 1, 2009
Would you invite friends over for dinner and secretly serve pieces of rat in a dish that would keep the meat’s identity hidden?
This reminds me of Peter Hessler’s “A Rat In My Soup,” which ran in the New Yorker years ago. In the article, he travels to a city in China’s Guangdong Province that’s home to two well-known restaurants specializing in rat meat. He learns about the tonic property of rat (it’ll put hair on your chest, literally), which is one of the main reasons for its consumption, and what they eat before they end up on your plate (grass and fruit). At the second restaurant he even gets to witness his chosen rat meeting its demise prior to cooking, but that’s rather unpleasant, so I won’t dwell on it. Despite the strangeness of it all, he concludes that rat meat doesn’t actually taste bad. And that’s all I really need to know.
My answer? Hell, yes. I’m sure I’m probably losing a few pals by admitting this, but I’d do it without a second thought (or without much of one). If I chose a heavily seasoned recipe with a bunch of different ingredients, I’m sure no one would notice anything was amiss (and why would they think anything would be amiss in the first place? I’m their friend. They trust me. Mwah hah). Of course, I wouldn’t serve any rat off the street. Just like fine restaurants, which serve farm-raised squab rather than the filthy one-eyed pigeons you see flapping around in the gutter, I’d make sure that my guests had the cleanest, tastiest specimen that money could buy. After all, nothing is too good for my friends!
Yes, but I’m only doing the serving here. Because I don’t care where that rat came from – I don’t care if it’s the finest rat money can buy, imported from the French countryside and wearing a little unisex rat tiara – I’m not touching a rat, and I’m certainly not skinning, gutting and preparing one. Fuck that. So, my answer is yes, I would absolutely serve my friends a rat – that I’d paid someone else to prepare and then shut the hell up about. They’ve eaten grosser stuff.