Test your fortitude or challenge your ineptitude?

RYAN: Game shows nowadays are plagued with predictable banter, outdated formats, manufactured thrills, and low stakes, with Deal Or No Deal being the worst offender of them all. A million dollar suitcase? A mysterious banker that no can see or hear? Please, Howie. Don’t waste my time. Go back to making Bobby’s World and maybe I’ll start respecting you again. That’s why when I’m looking for some thrills, some excitement, some unbelievable fun, I turn to a game where the stakes are a little higher than a mere million dollars. A game where one wrong move doesn’t take away the chance to change your life. It just takes your whole life. I talk, of course, of Russian Roulette. Russian Roulette doesn’t need some fancy set, 26 beautiful women who for some reason decided they should talk now, and some cheap gimmick to try to boost ratings—oh, it’s Green Week so all the girls are wearing green dresses! The stakes are high and the rules are clear. All you need is a cheap revolver, a dirty room (preferrably with minimal overhead lighting), a tarp on the floor if you want to plan ahead, and a whole helluva lot of balls. The best part, unlike Deal Or No Deal, when someone gets screwed over in Russian Roulette we don’t have to listen to that person say “that’s okay” over and over.

SHAWN: Some (read: you) might think I’m going to fight back by pointing out how much it sucks to lose Russian Roulette, but you are wrong and stupid. It’s not worth arguing how high the stakes are if you lose Russian Roulette. But let’s examine the stakes regarding the most important part of any game—winning. If you win Deal Or No Deal, you get a million dollars. If you win Russian Roulette, you don’t die. Yeah, I’ve seen people lose and also not die. What happened when your beloved Cardinals lost the Super Bowl? Yeah, they also didn’t die. People are constantly winning and losing games and not dying. Why bother playing Russian Roulette when you could win Scrabble with the same outcome? Now shove some middle-aged fatty on stage with her three closest, most camera-friendly friends (okay, maybe more like one-and-a-half are camera friendly) and inflate her insecurities with overpaid hotties holding briefcases, but then give her the chance to win a million bucks! That’s entertainment. And that banker could be anyone, maybe even a banker! Which is more fun to watch? Some idiot shooting himself or Howie cringing as Housewife McGee hugs him again.

Note to the banker: Let the Wookie win.

RYAN: If you’re too scared to play a round of Russian Roulette, that’s cool. Not everyone has the balls to do it, and you are clearly one of those people. You stay inside your cozy little bubble and play those nice, safe, Mom-approved games like Scrabble and Deal Or No Deal and Mall Madness. It’s okay. I won’t judge you. But it’s not like everyone who wins on Deal Or No Deal gets a million dollars. Some of the “winners” I’ve seen walked away with a whopping $10. Ohhhhh big winner! Has even one person won the million yet? I know they were so desperate to make it happen they started rigging it so half the cases were million-dollar cases. Where’s the fun in that? That only takes away from the tension. Oh, I’m so worried she might open the million dollar case, but luckily there’s NINE OTHERS STILL IN PLAY! And really, the tension in Deal Or No Deal is so drawn out and over the top as it is. Is there anything lamer than the way Howie Mandel dramatically puts his hands together in front of his face, points at a model and says “Keltie—open the case”? Actually, yes, there is. It’s the way Howie Mandel struts towards the camera while throwing it to a commercial break. You want real tension? Real drama? You won’t find it on TV, no matter what TNT tells you. You’ll find it when someone puts a gun to their temple, questions their own very existence, and then pulls the trigger.

SHAWN: Someone (read: you) has been watching too much Army Wives and not enough NBC (“We have three okay shows!”). When Tom Travesty leaves Deal or No Deal with $10, he’s not exactly considered a “winner”—yeah, that’s a loser. It turns out you can lose Deal Or No Deal too. But, hey, go ahead and play Russian Roulette. I mean, you lose that game, you go straight to Hell; you lose Deal Or No Deal, you go buy a coffee and maybe a nice scone if you’re by yourself. Sure, once in while Tom will start clapping and laughing about how “it’s $10 more than I came here with,” but he lost. Bad. But you know what? Some Deal Or No Deal “losers” leave with, oh, $100,000 too. Yeah, that game sure sucks. And you talk about having your titanium balls and playing Russian Roulette but everyone knows a gun to your temple is the easy way out and that your balls are only titanium because of that Foxy Boxing accident (she threw a good haymaker). You know what takes guts? Going home, facing your friends and family, and weighing yourself after leaving Deal or No Deal with $200 because you were greedy and turned down $250,000. Deal Or No Deal leaves people to deal with the real world—you want a cozy bubble? Try Russian Roulette. Sure, the bubble might be more rectangular, wooden and six feet under, but it sure is cozy, you pussy.

Dollar signs instead of S's? That's marketing savvy right there.

RYAN: Yeah, I’m the pussy, not you, the one who won’t play Russian Roulette and for some reason knows the name of a TV show on Lifetime. I only know that because I just Googled it. What’s your excuse? Even if you haven’t “watched it before”, that just means you’ve a) read about it or b) know about it because you watch something else on Lifetime. Joke about my surgically enhanced titanium balls all you want, but there’s no disputing they’re there. And I need all three of them to play Russian Roulette, which isn’t the “easy way out” like you suggest. If it were so easy, then even someone like you wouldn’t be throwing a big hissy fit over it. And really, Deal Or No Deal is not some complex game testing people’s intellects. You pick numbers, you hit big bright buttons, and you never touch Howie. Wow. Yeah. Sounds hard. Sure, it takes guts for all those losers to go home to their normal lives and face their friends and families after failing so miserably. But you do that everyday, and you haven’t even been on Deal Or No Deal, so I don’t see why that’s such a big deal. But what exactly does Deal Or No Deal teach about the real world? If someone wins, they think they can go through life being lazy and live off free handouts like they’re some bank or car company. If someone loses, they think it’s okay to be an idiot and make poor life decisions. Russian Roulette, you win, you have a newfound appreciation for life. If you lose, you die. No shame in that. It was going to happen one day anyways.

SHAWN: Excuse me for knowing the name of Army Wives, Mr. Mall Madness. Does it get you off when I point out your hypocrisy, because you seem to be really into that? Do you think it helps you win the hearts of the ladies? Because you know what doesn’t? Being dead. Also, the “hissy fit” card? Really? Do you know what this blog is? And, sure, Deal Or No Deal is easy, but at least you have to be able to read numbers. For Russian Roulette you have to know how to move your finger inward in a slight motion, which you’re probably pretty good at after boning up your skills with Mall Madness marathons. Do you honestly think people who lose Deal Or No Deal think it’s okay to be an idiot? They just passed on a quarter million dollars to have barely enough for a new set of Star Wars collectibles off eBay—they’re not skipping home to make more bad life choices like unprotected sex, voting Republican, or putting a gun to their head and flippantly pulling the trigger like life’s some kind of game. And you keep calling me out on not wanting to play Russian Roulette, but you know what? I’m not entirely convinced that you’ve EVER EVEN PLAYED Russian Roulette. Yeah, I went there. Last I checked you’re still alive and your temple is as pristine as the day you came out of your mother as a bouncing baby girl. At least I don’t play it because I’d rather win money. You, on the other hand? Wait, what’s that noise? Yeah, them’s your balls clanging around with terror.

Next on Danger Queue: Brian vs Brain—Only One Sidekick Canine Deserves a Martini

Would Jesus spend his week nights at the Y?

SHAWN: Young man, are you looking for a place where you can party all night, engage in wholesome fellowship all day, and maybe even play some hoops or get your exercise on for like $12 a month? Well, there’s a place you should know—hell, an association you should know—called the Young Men’s Christian Association. Oh, I know what you’re thinking: “But I’m not a Christian, you handsome blogger, you.” Well, it doesn’t matter! They don’t actually give a fuck who uses their one treadmill that only works in reverse! The words “young” and “men” are even taken pretty loosely at this party bus. Learn to box! Wear an offensive Indian headdress! Get yourself clean! Have a good meal! Dance! Even Jesus wouldn’t turn that down.

RYAN: Actually, I think Jesus would turn that down after seeing the half-inflated volleyball, lopsided basketball hoops, and creepy sweaty guy who lingers a little too long in the locker room. Go ahead and disagree all you want, but no one really knows for sure what Jesus would do. That’s the magic of WWJD. Those four magical letters guide us through life’s toughest decisions—Should I call in sick today? Should I pay the mortage this month? Should I buy another lap dance?—because it’s completely open to our own interpretation. In my heart of hearts, yes, I believe Jesus would definitely go for that last lap dance. And yes, he would call in sick. Probably did all the time. That’s why he never made it as a carpenter.

Nothing quite like a good, sweaty workout at the Y.

SHAWN: Hmm, if only there was some way to figure out what Jesus would do in those situations. Like some book of guidance, perhaps even detailing his life, teachings, and possibly number of lap dances received. Oh, well, since that book doesn’t exist we’ll have to guess. And it seems like we like to guess Jesus would do things like steal rights from gays, force women to perform their own abortions and renew Knight Rider but can Pushing Daisies. Let’s not pretend that because Jesus can turn water into wine, his parties would rock. There would be Hilary Duff’s Greatest Hits on repeat, no swearing, and only a little pot. You can find more drugs and alcohol soaked up in a reusable gym towel at the Y. That’s where the party’s at. And, you know what? If you want a straight basketball hoop or a guy who doesn’t stare at you in the locker room while rubbing his stomach, go to church.

RYAN: You and your books. Here’s a simple rule: if James Patterson’s not involved, I’m not interested. I like my books like I like my sex—boring and repetitive with a disappointing climax. Yes, WWJD is a powerful concept that unfortunately some people choose to use to push their own agendas. But just because someone uses it to steal rights from gays doesn’t mean gays can’t use it to steal their rights back. We can talk all we want about if WWJD is used for good or evil, but at least it’s still relevant. The YMCA hasn’t been relevant since February 1979, exactly one month after the song became a “hit”. Since then, the only time anyone even talks about the YMCA is at a wedding reception or high school dance, and that’s not really so much “talking” as much as “singing along while making the letters with their arms”. Even that has become tiresome and old. Just look at your wedding reception. There was a reason why you were the only one on the dance floor when that song came on, and it’s not because you had long since decided to ditch your pants.

Jesus would totally be the 'Y'.

SHAWN: Note to readers: Per my wife and my requests to the DJ, YMCA was not played at our wedding, for the organization far exceeds the merits of its song and because my arms were busy Soulja Boy-ing. Tell ‘em. But if you like boring books with disappointing climaxes and a lot of random poking, then Jesus has the book for you. Spoiler alert: we all go to Hell. And, also, Jesus is a ghost that only Haley Joel Osment can see. And why, pray tell, is relevance more important than if something’s used for evil? You know what’s relevant? Terrorism. So is terrorism better than a church-funded organization where friends can hang out safely? Is it? And it’s probably just a “coincidence” too that if you take the first two letters of your last name and stick it with the second-to-last letter and then add “Laden” that you’d be “Ryan bin Laden” then, huh? But even if this argument was about relevance, we’re not arguing songs here. You may not find cheap work-out equipment, aerobics classes, and Million Dollar Baby relevant, but why don’t you take a look at your tax return and check out how much money you pissed away on gym dues, Denise Austin videos, and euthanasia, and realize you could have done it all for $16/month?

RYAN: Remember the simpler times in life when YMCA memberships only cost $12 a month? I do. It was only a few short paragraphs ago. But now you say it costs $16 a month. I can’t help but wonder how much it’s going to be by the end of this paragraph. $17? $21? $83? Side note: If you haven’t filed your tax returns yet, you might want someone to double-check them for you. I don’t know what crazy shit you’re claiming, but gym dues and subscriptions to dicks.com are not deductible. Better be careful. If the IRS catches on to you, they’re going to be all up in your ass. But maybe that’s what you want. But hey, thanks for not disputing the fact that you did dance pantsless at your wedding reception. Maybe the song wasn’t YMCA. Maybe it was Soulja Boy, Jack Johnson, or the Mr. Belvedere theme song, but that really doesn’t make it any better. Because I’m such a nice guy, I’m going to ignore the fact you seemingly compared WWJD with terrorism and just say maybe you should go back to drawing editorial cartoons for The New York Post. Right about now, you’re probably noticing that I’m not even defending WWJD anymore. I don’t mean to be overly confident, but seeing as how your defense relied on how the YMCA is littered with drug- and alcohol-soaked towels, potential pedophiles in the locker room, and broken and cheap workout equipment, I’m not too worried.

Next on Danger Queue: Russian Roulette vs Deal or No Deal—Does Anyone Have Sanitizing Wipes for Howie? [ad]

It all comes down to numbers, and not that lame CBS show with the '3' instead of an 'e'.

RYAN: For too long, coloring books dominated our kindergarten classes, tormenting us for years and years with their misery. As a five-, six-, and seven-year-old, how the hell am I supposed to know how to color in everything? Is the bear on page 6 a brown bear or a red bear? Fuck, maybe he’s a green bear. I didn’t even think of green. And his hat? What color is his hat? DOES ANYONE KNOW?!? No, nobody knows cause it’s all so damn subjective. Well, not anymore. Paint By Numbers eliminates all the talent, thought, and creativity normally associated with coloring and painting and makes it so simple even a thrice-held-back kindergartner can do it. Now there’s no debating what color goes where; the companies already decided for us what looks best. No more stress. No more tears. So long Mrs. Kennedy! Hello first grade!

SHAWN: Congratulations on having your hand held through art class on your third attempt at kindergarten—you should be proud. Like when you learned to ride a bike when you were six and go to the bathroom by yourself when you were 14. Paint by numbers, though? You have to be kidding me; it’s not rocket science. But you know what is? Rocket science. Sure, rocket science gets a bad name as the science for “squares” and the most boring course of study since Spanish, but every young boy, in between painting well-labeled circles, has to get a little creative sometimes—so he starts blasting toy rockets. Sure, you weren’t worried about trajectories, aeroelasticity, structural mechanics and making the Kessel Run in twelve parsecs back then, but now your brain can handle it. Unless, of course, you’re still painting by numbers.

She's about to play Killing In The Name.

RYAN: As a matter of fact, I am still painting by numbers. See, as I grew into the handsome, well-rounded man you see before you today, I also grew to become quite the painter. And by that, I mean Paint By Numbers released versions for adults. Instead of ranging from one to five, the numbers go all the way from one to 77. More numbers, more colors, but the same lack of originality and creativity we’ve come to rely on. Paint By Numbers knows what it is: a way to let people think they’re talented at something they’re not, just like Guitar Hero, sudokus, and blogs. Rocket science is just an excuse for those intellectual snobs to rub in how they have bigger brains, higher IQs, and fewer restraining orders against them. They bring us down with their negativity and sarcasm. “You can’t tie your shoes? It’s not rocket science.” Oh, really? Thanks for pointing that out. Your astute observation makes it much easier for me to remember to pull the first bunny ear under the second. Thank you so very much. Ass.

SHAWN: In an attempt to avoid this argument once again becoming about our nation’s anti-intellectualism, I’ll say there’s nothing wrong with high IQs and leave it at that. Mostly because I’m not convinced this is anti-intellectualism as much as anti-high school equivalency. Paint By Numbers is celebrating adulthood by congratulating you on being able to count to 77. Fun fact: 78 was the number of the day on Sesame Street yesterday and, yes, I only watch it for Prairie Dawn’s low-cut tops. Rocket science, on the other hand—talk about fun! Macroscopic properties of materials at the atomic level! Failure analysis! Rutherford backscattering! Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!! Hang that on your wall and frame it! And, while you’re at, stop telling people you painted that perfectly in-line Mona Lisa yourself. The credit belongs to the numbers one through 77 and you know it. Try showing people that Mona Lisa and taking credit for something really important like, I don’t know, space exploration.

Go ahead. Lean over and reach for those fish.

RYAN: Which part of space exploration is really important? The failed launches, the lost satellites, or the millions and millions of dollars wasted each year? Face the facts: Rocket science hasn’t given us anything useful since Tang, and by your own admission, that’s not even the best orange-flavored drink out there. And da Vinci would be totally cool with me taking credit for my Mona Lisa painting. After all, he was the pioneer behind the Paint By Numbers system. Maybe if you researched a little more and masturbated to Sesame Street a little less (mind you, I didn’t say stop), you’d already know that. Between all his scholarly pursuits as a scientist, mathmetician, painter, and movie-inspiring code writer, da Vinci didn’t have the time to painstakingly recreate his paintings one by one. So he had his lowly assistants do it for him. To help those talentless nobodies mimmick his brilliance, he broke painting down to a science of numbers and colors. And that same science is still helping talentless nobodies like you, me and that guy over there to this very day. Who has rocket science helped? Nobody. We don’t live on the moon, we don’t have flying cars, and Lance Bass still hasn’t felt the thrust of a rocket launching him into space. Rocket science? No thank you.

SHAWN: Maybe after 500 years, da Vinci’s a little tired of you always suckling off his teat. Maybe he didn’t want his invention to be used for sunshines, children playing on hills, hand-drawn scenes from The International, and Rosie O’Donnell. Maybe you should’ve done more research of your own and found out that da Vinci thinks you’re a stupid fuck. Just check Wikipedia; maybe it’s there right now. Maybe we shouldn’t get bogged down in maybes and think about trulys. Trulys like space exploration. But you think launching things into space isn’t important, huh? Well, why don’t you pick up your cell phone you can’t use, turn on your satellite TV you can’t watch, break out your map that’s now invisible, and bitch it up? Unless you want to swallow your pride and da Vinci’s delicious breast milk (alfredo sauce) and apologize to rocket scientists everywhere. And do you want to know why we don’t have flying cars? Because people aren’t creative. You can’t invent a flying car without a blank canvas. Too bad there are always so many numbers holding rocket science back. Numbers you have to paint by. Paint by numbers, you might say. Paint. By numbers.

Next on Danger Queue: YMCA vs WWJD—He Probably Wouldn’t Dress as the Construction Worker

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Both famous for their sexual exploits, but only one can be called "hero".

SHAWN: Shaken, not stirred? A little selfish, don’t you think? What if I wanted a sip but I like it stirred? I mean, most people like it stirred. Really, Bond, you are one egocentric prick. And what’s up with that suit? You know what always looks good? Two lollipops with hearts on them crossed over each other and tattooed on your stomach. Who’s badass now? I bet Bond couldn’t even handle needles to his stomach. And he sure as hell couldn’t shoot rainbows out of there. You may have a license to kill, but it doesn’t take a license to share. It’s for everybody. And there’s only one person who cares enough about the world—about each other—about this damn little planet we call our Earth—to hold your hands and warm your heart. And you know who that is, motherfucker? Bear. Share Bear.

RYAN: Interesting. You call James Bond selfish for getting the drink shaken when you wanted it stirred. Doesn’t that make you selfish? Yeah, I think it does. Maybe you’re the one who needs to learn a thing or two about sharing. I know you like to sleep at night with a dirty stuffed Share Bear with weird holes cut out, but that doesn’t seem to be helping. You know who Bond sleeps with? Hotties from all over the world. His penis has seen so much foreign poon, the UN asked it to be a goodwill ambassador. Talk all you want about how much Share Bear cares for the world, but has he ever gotten off his cloud and done something about it? Bond cares so much that he’s risked his life to save the world not one, not two, not three, but 22 times (24 if you count the original Casino Royale and Never Say Never Again). Maybe instead of chastising him, you should be thanking him. And for the record, he shares plenty: bullets, his fists, witty one-liners.

Shawn's vast Care Bear collection.

SHAWN: First of all, Stewart must be up to his old tricks, because no matter what angle you try to take Share Bear from, Ryan, she is still a girl. And you know what’s selfish? Going around killing people when we already live in a chaotic world. Bond may go around carrying a gun and handing out bullets to people like it’s his job—which it is—but Share Bear goes around carrying a purse filled with lollipops that she hands out to share with her friends. And, yeah, they share them, even if it means getting Grumpy Bear’s cold sore or Lord-knows-what from Surprise Bear. Bond just shares death and chlamydia. It’s people like him that give this country (England) a bad name. When was the last war that was caused by lollipops? And don’t say The Crusades—everybody knows that was Lik-m-aid.

RYAN: I should have known Share Bear is a girl. That explains why it’s completely worthless. Maybe if we were comparing James Bond with one of the male Care Bears—like Champ Bear—there could be an actual debate. That bear was a born winner. But Share Bear is just plain weak. “Hey, look, it’s Share Bear. Everyone take advantage of her!” Think about it. If Share Bear ever has anything you want—a lollipop, a milkshake, youthful innocence—she has to share it with you. It says so right in her name. If she doesn’t then she’d just be a bitch and we all know Bitch Bear isn’t going to move any greeting cards. But Bond, well, no one takes advantage of Bond. If anything, he takes advantage of them. Especially the women in the older films. Some might call that harassment and assault of the sexual variety. I call it persistence. Amazing persistence. Over the years, sure, maybe he’s contracted an STD or eight, but he’d only have gotten them if one of the cleverly named women Share Beared it with him in the first place. I bet it was that Pussy Galore. What a cunt.

The "Galore" refers to her plethora of STDs.

SHAWN: So, what, because Share Bear’s willing to give a little, it’s okay for people like Bond to take full advantage of her? That’s really the argument you’re going with? Kinda like how Rihanna had it coming? Consider me appalled. And at least Share Bear’s not some pussy who hides behind her gun. You know how Share Bear warms the hearts of her enemies? The Care Bear stare. A stare, Ryan. When was the last time Bond defeated the villain by looking at him? Live and Let Die? Octopussy? Die Hard 2? Never? I think it might’ve been never. Plus, let’s look at the villains: Bond’s villains generally have, say, a monkey hand or pointy Frisbee hats, while the Care Bears fight evil spirits who inhabit the bodies of children. Yeah, try shooting a spirit, Bond. And Bond may have all the cool gadgets and a sweet Aston Martin, but you mentioned before how Share Bear travels—via cloud. Go ahead, Bond, why don’t you drive up to some guy with only one good eye and shoot him the face? Pretty tough. Meanwhile, Share Bear over here will fly through the air, destroying evil spirits by looking at them.

RYAN: I’m not saying that Rihanna deserved what she got, but what she got is better than what she allegedly gave him. Bruises heal. Herpes are forever. Clearly though, I misjudged Share Bear. I had no idea she was floating around on clouds performing exorcisms—with stares of all things—on misbehaving children. Wow! Sounds fucking intense. Thank you, Share Bear. Without you, those possessed children might not get a nap time, or, even worse, their mid-afternoon snack. And here I thought James Bond was the total badass. All he does is travel the globe, sleep with beautiful women, and save us all from villians with plots of world domination. Villians with lasers, toxic gas, nuclear bombs, and steel teeth. Villians who wouldn’t hesitate to kill you, me, or even you. Yeah, that’s not badass at all. Not compared with fighting, what was it again, “evil spirts who inhabit the bodies of children”? Oh, yeah, that’s way better, Shawn. Way better. Maybe if you and Share Bear came down off your high and mighty cloud once in a while, you’d see we live in a world where evil doesn’t respond to someone trying to eye fuck them into submission. No. They respond to bullets, brute force, and Bond. James Bond.

Next on Danger Queue: Paint By Numbers vs Rocket Science—Why’d You Have to Go and Make Things so Complicated?

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Germany vs France and Britain: It's like a world war of transportation.

RYAN: Since the demise of Hitler, the English Channel had long been considered the single worst thing associated with Europe. A giant body of water separating France and England. Really, God? I usually don’t like to call him out on his mistakes, but that was arguably the biggest one. England and France could have been total BFFs if there wasn’t some giant obnoxious moat between their houses. Thankfully, man stepped in and righted the wrong, as we usually do (see canal, Panama). After years of resorting to swimming the channel, finally, someone had the brains to stand up and ask “Why don’t we build a bridge?” Luckily, someone with even more brains stood up and asked even louder “Why don’t we build a tunnel?” And the rest was history.

SHAWN: If you think the English Channel is the single worst thing associated with Europe, clearly you’ve never heard of Coldplay. Congratulations on shoving a giant pipe underwater for people to travel through—I liked it even better the first time when it was called the Underground Railroad. You know what’s more fun than sitting back in a cramped-ass train with smelly Frenchmen? Roaring through Germany or Switzerland at 100 miles per hour…legally! Only in Europe can you truly feel the wind in your hair, the life flashing before your eyes, the Ricky Bobby of it all. Fuck you, caution; I’m my own man. That’s why I drive on the Autobahn, unlike all you chumps squeezed together in the Chunnel.

Coldplay? Best Rock Album? Guh?

RYAN: Despite the fact the Underground Railroad was neither underground nor a railroad, you make a good point. The Chunnel is eerily similar to the northernly route to freedom for American slaves. Even so, I’d still rather take a nice leisurely, stress-free train ride over the Nazi-esque rules of the Autobahn. No passing on the right. No tailgating. Only drive on the left to pass. What’s the point in driving ridiculously fast if you can’t endanger your life and the lives of everyone else on the road? At least in the Chunnel I can travel at speeds of 186 mph without worrying about being pulled over for not heiling loud enough. Go ahead and drive on the roads all you want, I prefer to do all my traveling underwater. The way God intended it.

SHAWN: Didn’t you just yell at God for even creating the English Channel, and now you’re praising him for something that you argue was created to fix his mistake? Someone’s been breathing dense underwater air for too long. And if you want Nazi-esque rules, look no further than a tunnel. Yeah, want to go left? Too bad, you can’t. Right? Nope. Anywhere besides a straight line, exactly how the tracks have been laid out for every single rider that existing before you? Not on my watch, Chris Martin. Sure there are rules to prevent death on the Autobahn (not really Nazi-like, if you ask me or Anne Frank), but you still get to control your own destiny and do it as fast as you want. The only people who should be traveling underwater are mermaids and just because you wear sea-shell bras and sing about princes doesn’t mean you are one.

Swim no more. We've got the Chunnel now.

RYAN: Where exactly did I praise God? Was it the part where I compared the Autobahn to Nazi Germany, or the part where I said God wanted us to travel underwater? I don’t see any praise in there. Just indisputable facts. You know what else is indisputable? The fact that you’re about to get completely nailed. See, you of of all people should know that faster isn’t better. Sound familiar? It should. You’ve only reminded me of that throughout the long, storied history of Danger Queue while making some crude, not-so-subtle sexual innuendo about my bedroom prowess, or severe lack thereof. Hmmmm. Interesting. But now you’re saying the exact opposite. Now you’re saying the Autobahn is better because it lets you “do it as fast as you want”. That’s convenient. And contradictory. Go ahead. Explain your way out of this one. And yes, I’ve contradicted myself before, but you’ve never caught me.

SHAWN: First of all, I’m a little sad that half of Danger Queue apparently doesn’t read Danger Queue in that I catch your contradictions like I’m John Edwards and they’re STDs. And that includes the God one that I’m not sure you even explained your way out of, in that you still said God intended underwater travel and, in essence, the Chunnel, which last I checked is (at the very least) faint praise. But I don’t digress. It’s funny how you tossed that “faster is better” argument out of your ass like you’ve been holding onto it for weeks, just waiting for the perfect opportunity to use it against me? Well, my enemy, you’ll have to wait longer, in that my entire argument for the Autobahn is based on diversity, not speed. Last I checked, a certain early ejaculator lauded the Chunnel for traveling “speeds of 186 mph”. I at least say you can take the Autobahn “as fast as you want”, which could very well mean slow and easy, the way the Autobahn likes it sometimes, especially after red wine. I like to change lanes and speed once in a while, even if you prefer thrusting your train through a tunnel as fast as humanly possible in the same motion you use every time while the Chunnel closes her eyes and pretends you’re Colin Firth.

Next on Danger Queue: James Bond vs. Share Bear—One Way or Another, There Will be Pussy Galore

Where does true delight lie: in a plastic bottle or in a mid-afternoon orgasm?

SHAWN: If there’s one thing you could remove from orange juice, it would be the nutrition and pulp. If there’s one thing you could remove from orange soda, it would be the bubbles. Well, lucky friends, why not remove all that crap and then combine it into quite possibly the epitome of all orange-flavored drinks everywhere: Sunny Delight? Sunny D, as the Hebrews call it, is the most refreshing 8 ounces of pure syrup any child could ever dream of. Heck, even adults would kill to unleash that power. The name says it all: as refreshing as the sun, as delightful as the sun! Don’t like the original flavor? Well, try a fusion! FUSION! Strawberry! Mango! Red punch! Strawberry! Get it California OR Florida style. Hell, look deep enough and maybe you’ll find the short-lived Ohio-style. This sky rocket’s in flight…for xanthan gum!

RYAN: Let’s not beat around the bush here. If you want refreshing, power unleashing, pure syrup, you’re not wanting Sunny Delight. You’re yearning for a little Afternoon Delight. There’s nothing quite like a long round of mid-afternoon thrusting. I’m talking 4, maybe 5 minutes long. All with an approving sun smiling down on you. For too many years, we’ve been constrained to having late night escapades, behind closed doors, under the cover of darkness. I don’t know about you, but I’m not about to let some clock tell me when I can and can not get my hump on. My motto’s always been when it’s right, it’s right. And Afternoon Delight is most assuredly right. As for Sunny Delight, I’m not even sure what it is, let alone if it’s right. Is it supposed to be orange juice? Is it supposed to be pop? Make up your mind!

Juno's drink of choice when it comes to taking pregnancy tests.

SHAWN: Next time you’re telling me about being constrained to late night escapades, please don’t use the term “we”. More importantly, once in a while you need a little afternoon release—even the best of us just spend too much of our mornings thinking about Bea Arthur. But, riddle me this: after a long day of rollerblading, right after you bought those neon green knee pads to go with your bright orange striped t-shirt and hot pink cap, listening to Run DMC on your Walkman, what do you run straight for? OJ? Purple stuff? Sex? Some soda? No, sir, you go straight for the Sunny Delight. Thank God mom made sure your fridge is stocked. Now imagine coming home, from a long morning at work in your new neon orange jacket, purple suede shoes and one bright green earring to find…no one home? Great—you had your heart set on Afternoon Delight, but now all you get is an afternoon yank-fest. No one gets disappointed with Sunny D. Just twist open that refreshing amalgam of all things beverage and take a gulp—it’s the same deliciousness every time. And, for the love of God, what IS that purple stuff?

RYAN: Oh, please, don’t flatter yourself. That “we” was more of a “we, the world” kind of “we”. Not “we, me and you”. You’re clearly not my type, what with the beard, the small chest, and, most importantly, the penis. All those turn me off. Especially the penis. You should know that by now. You should also know that whether or not you’ve got a partner doesn’t make Afternoon Delight any less delightful. It doesn’t matter if you’re alone, with someone, companionless, or by yourself. Afternoon Delight never disappoints because it’s always fucking great. Literally. Sunny Delight never disappoints because the expectations are so unbelievably low. Look at its competition: orange juice, soda, and purple stuff. You admit yourself you don’t even know what that purple stuff is. And come on, your “scenarios” are as slanted as they are a fashion nightmare. Sunny Delight conveniently in the fridge? Really, when was the last time you had Sunny Delight in the fridge? 1998? 1999? Considering all the preservatives and chemicals packed in each bottle, I’d bet it’s still good. How’s this for a scenario: you come home from a long morning digging holes. On one side of the room—Sunny Delight. On the other side of the room: your wife, or whichever celebrity you’ve dubbed as your “one” (Sandra Bernhard?), seductively waiting for you. What do you do, Jack? What do you do?

As sexy as she is funny.

SHAWN: When was the last time I had Sunny Delight in my fridge? When was the last time YOU came home to find Sandra Bernhard or whoever is your “one” (Colin Firth?) seductively waiting for you? And, fine, not every fridge will be jam-packed with Sunny D, but if you need a fix of that orange magic, you need only skip to the local Pick-n-Save and buy your ass one. I mean, you may do the same with women, and in your case they’re probably cheaper than Sunny D, but someone needs to tell you that’s frowned upon. Sunny D might not have much competition besides that gallon jug of The Grimace’s blood, but that still means, like you said, “Sunny Delight never disappoints.” Hell, if we would just lower our expectations a little, maybe this whole “economic crisis” wouldn’t seem as bad. Remember when Sarah Palin “won” the Vice Presidential debate because she didn’t start throwing feces and screaming obscenities? We love low expectations—be prepared to watch Sunny D beat them even more, as they recently underwent an image shift and are now like a billion times healthier. Afternoon Delight still makes you come back to work smelling like Russell Crowe.

RYAN: Who wouldn’t want to smell like a sexed up hunk of man? An Oscar-winning sexed up hunk of man. However, I did notice in your long-winded, rambling, sometimes incoherent response, you never actually answered the question: What do you do—Sunny Delight or Afternoon Delight? Talk all you want about if Sandra Bernhard will actually be there or not, but I actually listed your wife as the first option. Probably best not to forget about your wife. Women don’t like that, and they have a funny way of never forgetting anything ever. But back to the point, you and I both know why you didn’t answer the question—because no one in their right mind chooses some ill-conceived orange drink/juice concoction over sex. Sex during the day, at that. Sure, Sunny Delight is arguably refreshing, and under the right circumstances, one may consider it quite delicious. But Afternoon Delight, well… I mean, come on. There’s certain needs that have to be fulfilled. And I’m not quite sure Sunny Delight can fulfill them. Not unless you plan of fucking the bottle. Is that what you’re planning?

Next on Danger Queue: Chunnel vs Autobahn—European Engineering at its Finest

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Do life's greatest things come whole or with convenient slots?

RYAN: The slotted spoon is perhaps one of the least appreciated inventions in the entire history of everything. Just try to imagine safely getting your cooked pasta, vegetables, and babies from boiling water without it. You can’t. It’s literally impossible. And don’t talk to me about using a strainer. I had a friend try that once. He’s dead now. I’m not saying the two are related, but these are the facts: He used a strainer. He’s dead. I use a slotted spoon. I’m alive. If that’s not proof that slotted spoons save lives, then I don’t know what is. The real shame is, for all the lives and families it’s saved, we’ll never know the who, why, and where behind the slotted spoon. That story has been lost to time. Was it pure chance? Maybe an invention of necessity. Maybe someone saw one too many discarded “broken” spoons and thought otherwise. Or maybe, just maybe, it appeared out of nowhere. As if God himself handed it down from the heavens, saying “Suffer no more, my friends.” Yeah, I like to think that’s how it went down.

SHAWN: I’m not going to right out call you a liar, but I knew that friend of yours who “died from using a strainer” and I happen to know he also had AIDS, malaria, coronary heart disease, obesity, and got hit by a car. Not saying any of those caused his demise, but maybe you should lay off the strainer: he does the best he can trying to hold on to your soaking wet, fully cooked babies. But if there’s one thing God’s good at, it’s giving us things whole: man, trees, disease. We’re the ones who go and mess up all He has made by shoving holes in it: donuts, bagels, spoons, houses. The real cure for man’s suffering is clearly whole wheat. With so many options to inhale this healthy and delicious treat—rolled oats! popcorn! hominy!—it’s like a smorgasbord of fiber. With some more whole wheat in his diet, your friend might still be around today. Instead of dead.

I hope for that puppy's sake he's not peaking right now.

RYAN: You’ve got some nerve. First you call me a liar, then you call my late friend fat, then you say David Hasselhoff peaked in 1987, and now you say man messed things up with the slotted spoon. Are you trying to be wrong all the time, or does it just come naturally? Whether or not it came from man (nope) or God (yep), the slotted spoon makes life great. There’s no debating that. It’d be impossible to enjoy that delicious boiled ham of yours without a slotted spoon. The piping hot ham water would literally destroy your mouth and possibly the mouths of all those you care about. What does whole wheat do that makes it so fantastic? Oh, it’s good for you. Way to go. Whole wheat is like that friend who becomes a vegetarian and then starts bragging about it after a week. Yay, you’re healthy, now stop talking about it like we give a crap. Whole wheat? More like asswhole wheat.

SHAWN: In all fairness, you have to take that Hoff comment I didn’t make within the context I didn’t include: 1987 was a GREAT year for the Hoff, so, yeah, he peaked. But that’s like saying George Washington peaked in 1776. He’s still talked about today as a god among men, but sometimes you have one hell of a year. Back to the point, it sounds like without slotted spoons you would be pouring boiling ham water straight into a cup and drinking it. Is that right? I know you love your ham water more than Pooh Bear loves honey…er, Ben Roethlisberger loves kicking ass, but that’s a unique problem caused by the time your mother bounced you on her knee in that compact car. In other words, yeah, slotted spoons serve a purpose, for the slow. Meanwhile, the intellectual elite who don’t swallow mouthwash can get their jollies from adult things, like whole wheat or MSNBC. And don’t pretend you only own things with slots in them to “cook”.

It's so watery. And yet there's a smack of ham to it.

RYAN: Thanks for mentioning whole wheat all of that one time at the end. For a second, I thought you were just trying to distract everyone with your blatant name dropping—the Hoff, the Wash, and the Roeth. I don’t know what’s more surprising about your defense: that you consider whole wheat for the elites or that you consider yourself to be one of those elites. This being the same guy who religiously watches American Idol and has the first two seasons of the Rosie O’Donnell Show on tape. Regardless, in times like this, I don’t think it’s wise to associate yourself with the “elites”. People have no tolerance for their money-grubbing ways right now, with the economy being in the shitter and all. People are out of work, businesses are closing down, and worst of all, the price of Totino’s pizzas is well over a dollar. A dollar! Times are rough, and not everyone has the luxury of buying luxurious luxury items like whole wheat. People are hunkering down, getting back to the basics, cutting corners, and using everything they have. Luckily, everyone already has a slotted spoon. Yeah. Everyone. Including you.

SHAWN: I apologize for mentioning whole wheat all of once, I mean it’s not like anyone JUST DID THE SAME THING WITH SLOTTED SPOONS or anything. Long story short, Captain Grasping-at-Straws, with all your economic optimism the only thing readers will soon have that’s slotted is their wrists. And it takes a guy who religiously drinks boiling hot ham water to confuse intellectual elitism for wealth. Have you ever bought whole wheat? I know it doesn’t normally come in Happy Meals with your hamburger, ketchup only, cut in little pieces, but it costs all of $2.00 for a pound, and that’s with rising costs. If you can afford your piping hot ham, you can afford whole wheat. Plus, with someone like you who would just burn himself on his Totino’s, whole wheat is entirely safe. And, if you really want to talk about economic problems, everyone would agree that the entire world is suffering. Clearly, we all did something wrong simultaneously. But, what, pray tell, do we all share in common? Surely there’s not one thing we all already have that led us into this situation. Let me just scroll up a little and think about…oh. Look at that. Slotted spoons. In your words: the cause of the economic crisis. How do you sleep at night?

Next on Danger Queue: Sunny Delight vs. Afternoon Delight—Unleash the Power

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This will most assuredly be in the Top 10.

SHAWN: Good readers, you may be asking yourself, “What does a grown man know about monologues?” Well, growing up in the shadow of a homeless guy who screamed a lot, I learned much of acting—walking past people without making eye contact, pretending I’m talking to someone on my cell phone, the old “Sorry, no cash”—and, if there’s one thing I know, it’s that female empowerment vignettes about the vagina are unstoppable. Some hilarious, others deadly serious, and some just uncomfortable, The Vagina Monologues have been entertaining and teaching women and men across the country and internationally for years. Sure, some forms of “entertainment” feature grown men screaming “HE DID IT! HE DID IT!” at you over and over, but who can pay attention to that when you have a grown woman screaming the c-word at you at the top of her lungs?

RYAN: Vignettes? Vaginas? Viggo Mortensen? Sorry, I don’t need a bunch of women telling me all about their “chinas”. I learned everything I need to know from the book What’s Happening To Me? But I’ll tell you what I do need to know: how many points Dwight Howard scored against the Mavericks last night. Thanks to the hour-long repetitive funfest known as Sportscenter, I can get that and so much more almost immediately. I used to aimlessly wander the streets trying to get my fix of sports highlights. Now, I get them all from one source. With hilarious commentary! Sweet sassy malassy, that’s awesome! Red Sox, Yankees hype? Yes, please. Throw in some Los Angeles Lakers too. Maybe an update on Tony Romo’s offseason plans. Oh, oh, more Yankees! Booyah! And just for good measure, let’s get some Skip Bayless in there. Facts? Reporting? No thanks. I want opinion and conjecture. And I want it yelled at me. Cause when someone yells, that means they have something important to say. Something very important.

I DON'T KNOW WHAT WE'RE YELLING ABOUT!

SHAWN: For the slow MTV-generation Sportscenter slow guy like yourself, you should know The Vagina Monologues isn’t a set of instructional videos that bring to life your favorite book. Are you there, God? It’s me, Ryan…and I apparently have no interest in understanding the trials and tribulations of my fellow humans. Just give me fast-paced, raw, ugly shots of men sodomizing each other and then scream meaningless banter at me and I’m good to go! Glad you designed me with a brain, God, huh? Plus, it’s 2009: girls dig sensitive guys and also vampires. They just rolls their eyes at Joe 24-Hour Sportscenter I Can’t Tell if This is the Same Episode I Just Watched guy. You have to put in some effort; it’s what makes relationships work. Plus, in The Vagina Monologues, you get to watch a woman discuss a triple orgasm. TRIPLE! Try bringing what you learned from Sportscenter to the bedroom and you’ll end screaming in your wife’s face and then slide-tackling her in the knee.

RYAN: Sportscenter gives way better tips than that. Watching Kobe Bryant highlights shows guys how to find an opening, penetrate the hole, stay up, and finish strong. With the occasional facial. I know I’m not alone in thinking a woman discussing a triple orgasm isn’t nearly as hot as hearing Linda Cohn talk about the contract negotiations between Manny Ramirez and the Los Angeles Dodgers. Manny wants 5 to 6 years, but the Dodgers are only offering 2. Annual salary, options, bonuses, tell me everything, Linda. Yeah, tell me everything. Girls can dig whatever they want—vampires, sensitivity, fwoopy hair, vaginas. But maybe they should put a little effort in themselves and ask what guys dig. You know what’s high on that list—sports. Erin Andrews isn’t considered a hottie just cause of her looks; she also knows about a 2-3 zone. But how would an uneducated girl go about learning the ins and outs of sports? Hmmmm… If only there were some place focused on just sports. A center, if you will. A center of sports. Is there anything like that?

Even if there are four guys, Kobe's gonna find that hole.

SHAWN: How are you married with that view of women? One in which they would be interested in something men are? Alright, Captain Delusional, why don’t you just hop aboard your rainbow ship and fly to Jupiter? Plus, you should try explaining why you love watching Kobe Bryant penetrate holes and see how women react. And ESPN can shove on as many token women as they can squeeze into one bed…er, broadcast, but it doesn’t mean there’s anything more to it than the same three clips over and over again. And over. Again. For a cultural, thrilling and hilarious experience, look no further than a series of monologues about the vagina. No token men in that play, that’s for sure. It knows what it is and it does it damn fine. Plus, when we inevitably get our millions of readers via random Google searches like usual, you’ll be happy I used the word “vagina” like ten times. You’re welcome.

RYAN: Sportscenter doesn’t just force women into it’s broadcasts like well-tanned, bosomy pieces of meat. It seamlessly fits them into its show, a show that cleans up each year at the Emmys. How many Emmys has The Vagina Monologues won? I’m too lazy to check, but I’m sure it’s none. Mostly cause it’s not on TV. And if it were on TV, you know it’d be one of those made-for-TV movies on Lifetime or Oxygen starring Patricia Richardson or the mom from “Malcom In The Midde”. Judy what’s her face. No thanks, I’d rather watch Chris Berman try to convince us he’s not bald and Emmitt Smith try to pronounce three-syllable words any day of the week. Oh, and your overuse of the word “vagina” doesn’t do us any good since you didn’t put any choice keywords alongside it. It was a solid effort though, Shawn. Maybe go grab yourself a hot shower, get wet, clean yourself off, and don’t come back til you’re all nice and shaved. And Asian.

Next on Danger Queue: Slotted Spoons vs Whole Wheat—You’ll Never Look at Pasta the Same Way Again