Do you have it? Or maybe it'll be a few more years 'til you do but you might as well fight for it now.

RYAN: Do, do, do, do you have it? GUTS! Dum. Dum. Don nun nun nuh! Don nun nun nuh! Go ahead. Sing the theme song with me. Don’t pretend you don’t know it. We all grew up watching Nickelodeon GUTS, unquestionably the greatest kids game show of all time. It had even crazier stunts than Legends of the Hidden Temple without all the pretentiousness of Olmec, the all-knowing talking rock. The only rock we cared about was the piece of the Crag you got for winning the whole thing. Oh, that Crag. Flashing lights. Excess amounts of glitter. Fog machines. The only other place you’ll find such a winning combination is in a strip club. But GUTS was more than just the Crag. It was a smorgasbord of bizarre sports and games involving bungee cords, big wheels, and ponytailed spotters who were just a little too touchy. GUTS was such a fantastic success it launched not one, not three, but TWO careers. Host Mike O’Malley later went on to star in his own award-winning sitcom (source needed), while referee Moira “Mo” Quirk later went on to star in many of my sex dreams. Go ahead, Mo, tell me how I clocked in.

SHAWN: Flashing lights? Excess glitter? Fog machines? Touchy ponytailed spotters? I’m not sure what kind of strip club you go to, but I’m pretty sure that makes GUTS more like a bathhouse. Add on a bunch of children in spandex, bungee cords, and your sex dreams, and I get the impression this “Nickelodeon GUTS” you speak of goes a little beyond mild fandom. But that’s your own problem, I suppose. In all honesty, though, how does watching some kid climb a foam rock really uplift the human spirit while teaching historical events in an entertaining, sometimes gorgeous, and Oscar-winning way? Oh, wait—it doesn’t. But Glory does. Telling the tale of the 54th Massachusetts Volunteer infantry—the first entirely African-American regiment in the Civil War—Glory will make you feel, cry, and learn. Clearly, this is the greatest film of all time and it’s definitely not a flaw that it will likely never be compared to a strip club. And too bad Mike O’Malley got his start years before GUTS with Nickelodeon’s Get the Picture. Maybe you should heed that advice and get the picture yourself.

Let's go to Ryan's pants for the results.

RYAN: Evidently you didn’t learn anything about reading from Glory, cause you would have noticed I never claimed O’Malley got his start on GUTS. No matter what other shows he did beforehand, GUTS, and GUTS alone, launched his career. And clearly GUTS wasn’t about teaching historical events, evidenced by the fact kids actually watched it. Probably cause the creators of the show know that shit is boring as fuck. Kids don’t want to feel, cry, and learn. They do plenty of that in school (or was that just me?). Outside of school, kids want action, intensity, and well-supervised fun. They don’t want to learn about the 54th Massachusetts volunteer infantry breaking down racial walls during the Civil War. Not when there are real walls to be broken down at the end of the Mad Max event! One of the many kickass events we came to love on GUTS. Vertiboggan. Skurfin’ Safari. Eat My Dust. Skyball. Slam-a-Jama. Everyone loved watching GUTS because they desperately wanted to compete on that show. Nobody watches Glory and thinks “Gee, I wish I could die in vain while charging a well-fortified position.”

SHAWN: I didn’t learn anything about reading from Glory? Really? Oh, excuse me for not learning reading from a movie. What a flaw. And maybe it was because you were still a mere pup of 4 months old in 1991, but Get the Picture was a fine television show and quite popular—115 episodes popular to be exact, so suck it. And, you’re dead on: kids don’t like learning, which might be why Glory was rated R, which means Restricted. Although you might not be so familiar with what that means, as you enjoyed your first R-rated film—Pretty Woman—when you were six and daddy dropped you off at the movie theater for a bit while he “took care of business.” But I digress. Glory is not for kids, so why can’t it be emotionally awesome? It’s smart, heartwarming, delicious moviemaking at its finest. Maybe you also didn’t notice that a little man named Matthew Broderick was in it. Do you concede yet? And funny that you list all the fun GUTS events without pointing out that the show had more misses than hits. Dodge It was just a game of dodgeball. Touchdown was just shittier football. Double Play was just shittier Touchdown. And Mo was just Mike O’Malley in drag. Or did you not ever notice his initials?

It's no Pretty Woman.

RYAN: Concede? CONCEDE?!? Did Anna “Roadrunner” Morris concede after injuring her knee? No. She played through the pain like a champion, and you know what that got her? A fucking gold medal. And the everlasting respect of her peers. She was a world-class athlete who loved to compete. Something you clearly don’t understand. Just a game of dodgeball? Just shittier football? Sounds like someone didn’t like gym class growing up. Sports weren’t your thing, huh? Maybe you would have liked GUTS more if it had events for sitting alone in a library or watching Days Of Our Lives with your mom. For the rest of us regular everyday kids, GUTS was straight out of our dreams. We already made up our own whacky games and threw stuff at each other, so why not strap a bungee cord to us and make it worth something? Sorry, if GUTS didn’t have the same star power as Glory. Oh, Matthrew Broderick, wow. I liked him better in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, before he went on to marry a horse and kill people. Yeah. That’s right. Look it up. Matthew Broderick is nothing more than another celebrity criminal who cheated the system. You ready to concede now?

SHAWN: I’m not sure if I would call being tied to a bungee cord and being hurdled toward a basketball hoop with a foam ball “world-class athleticism.” Maybe for the Special Olympics, if you were six, or if you had the upper body strength of Ryan, but that’s ESPN 12 stuff right there—right after they air the Parcheesi Championships and the Semi-Finals of the 20-Yard Walk. Sure, I also did my fair share of heaving stuff at other kids and making up rules for Scissorsball in between reading Faulkner and relishing in the neverending tales of the Horton family, but that’s all they were—wacky games that had no business being on the picture tube. We laughed, got bruised, got bloody, beat the snot out of each other—we weren’t in some television studio, with scripts and heavy competition and padding surrounding every inch of our body. If anything, we were like heroic Civil War barrier-breakers, being our own people, not products of some network. GUTS takes the fun out of being a little shit. And I suppose if we were arguing Matthew Broderick, you would make a good point, rather than sound like John McCain dropping the name William Ayers like he’s wearing mouth-Depends. As it stands, though, there’s no tale as thrilling and humbling as that of Glory, no matter how many times you have to go back and hit the actuators you missed along the way.

Next on Danger Queue: Lemons vs. Lemonade—It’s Like the Chicken and the Egg, but Fun!

Taking a few shots or taking other people's shit.

SHAWN: Swooooooosh! What’s that fine, fine sound? Why, that’s an arrow, soaring through the air like a fine bird and smacking straight into the center of a target. Athleticism, dexterity, vision—archery is the sportiest of sports. From Robin Hood to Link to that Indian from the Coke commercials, archers are the most highly regarded of athletes. When was the last time you ever hit something on the bull’s eye? Hell, they make urinal cakes with like a 9-inch diameter and, if you’ve ever been to a highway rest stop, you know most men STILL can’t come close to actually peeing into the urinal. And anyone could kill with a bullet, but taking down a deer with an arrow is much more impressive than inventing electricity or being resurrected. Plus, besides that deer or the villainous Gannon, archery doesn’t hurt anybody. Now burglary—unless you’re taking hamburgers from a fat kid, it’s pretty much all bad. All bad. Yeah, come on. Defend it. And don’t mind that I have this here arrow drawn.

RYAN: What, you mean this arrow? See, while you were blabbing on and on about archers and arrows and highway stop bathrooms, I was busy burglarizing everything you own. Your arrow, your Nintendo Wii, even your priceless VHS tape of the James Bond Jr. cartoon show. See, stealing is a great way for people like me without means to get the ends they so desperately need. I surely wouldn’t be able to afford my own James Bond Jr. VHS, so my only option was to steal yours. Everything I have I owe to stealing. My wife’s heart (awwwwww!), this pair of pants (dead guys don’t need pants), even this blog idea. Really though, we’re not all the different, you and I. You take down deers with arrows, and I take down wall-mounted televisions with my hands. See? No different. We’re both taking something that doesn’t belong to us. You do it for sport. I do it cause I need a bigger TV to watch shows off the TiVo I just stole from you. I need a TV that’s at least 40″ in order to enjoy, let’s see what you’ve recorded…Tyler Perry’s Meet The Browns and General Hospital??? Someone should burglar you some taste.

TBS. Kinda not really funny.

SHAWN: Ha! You didn’t steal my arrow, you little…damn. Well, good thing I have my quiver here filled with arro…fuck. And you replaced the arrows with sausage links. Great. Just great. Looks like there’s nothing I can do about that. Oh, except call the goddamn police who are on the way to your treehouse (where else would you be on a work day?) to lock you in prison for something like a million years! Yeah, you forgot a major downside of burglary—punishment. And joke’s on you as I gave away that VHS tape of James Bond Jr. to Salvation Army during my last move, so you probably accidentally took my VHS tape of Muppet Babies, sucker. And maybe I like a little diversity in my television line-up. Not that you’d know anything about diversity, Whitey McWhite, living in your “home” with your “wife” and your “treehouse” and your “hugely successful blog” and your “giant letter B”—yeah, not really the profile for someone who doesn’t have the “means to get to the ends they so desperately need.” Now that I’ve checked my home, it’s pretty clear you didn’t take any bread or clothes, unless you hollowed out that TiVo and made yourself yet another sleeping bag. And I’m not like you, burglar! I use skills and heroism to wield my mighty bow; you use a shovel and crowbar to get your hands on a dead guy’s pants.

RYAN: What are you going to tell the police? Oh, some handsome devil stole all my arrows before I could shoot him? Good thing you like punishment so much cause you’re about to get a healthy dose yourself. I believe they call that attempted murder, and you’ll be going away for a long time. Nowadays, anything you do is punishable. But burglary has the highest payoff. The whole Ocean’s Eleven series taught us not only that, but that stealing can be awesome fun. The only people who think archery is fun are the same people who clapped for Legolas in the Lord of the Rings movies. As for my “home”, wife”, “treehouse”, and all those other things you listed, I just admitted to stealing a dead guy’s pants, what makes you think I wouldn’t have stolen all those other things too? I like to think of myself as a modern day Robin Hood. He stole from the rich to give to the poor. I also steal from the rich—though you may have been a little bit of a stretch—so I can give to others. Sometimes the pawn shop. Sometimes random people who in turn give me money. Sometimes I give it to myself. You should check your house again though. Yes, I left the bread and clothes (I wouldn’t be caught dead in your wardrobe), but I did find something else to steal. You know, that thing you keep in the top drawer of your dresser. Underneath your adult-sized onesie. Yes. That.

I said I didn't want any of your damn thin mint cookies.

SHAWN: Ha! I doubt you found my secret stash under my adult-sized onesie. That’s why I put the poop-stained onesie there and then covered it in more poop—yeah, on purpose…yeah—so no one would ever go near there. Let me just go ahead and lift it up andIT’S GONE! You return that Hello Kitty cock ring this instance, so help me. And, yeah, welcome to the world of breaking and entering—just another hugely punishable crime to add to your list of “achievements.” And nowadays a lot of shit is punishable, but there’s one thing that never is and never has been and makes attempted murder as legal as churning butter—a little something called “self defense.” Aww, yeah, the second you stepped foot on my property to grab my Hello Kitty cock ring, you forfeited every human right you have. Just ask Clint Eastwood. Being shot in the face with an arrow doesn’t exactly sound as fun as you think burglary is, does it? Plus, really, your mentor for theft is Robin Hood? Hmmm, Robin Hood was pretty good. I wonder how he was able to steal so much and then sneak into the palace to rescue Maid Marion? What was his weapon of choice? A bow and what now? And what was his contest of choice? Oh, yes, ARCHERY. Now get off my property.

RYAN: If you could shoot me in the face with an arrow, I might be worried. Try all you want, but we all know that arrow won’t land within 10 feet of my face. You’re barely strong enough to pull the arrow back, let alone hold it while aiming with any hint of accuracy. Frankly put, you’re no Robin Hood. Practice all you want, but it won’t make a difference. And really, you’re just wasting your time anyways. Archery is an outdated craft (yeah, craft!) only found at medieval fairs and the occassional Olympic event. Burglary is way more popular, and with good reason. It’s perfect for all the adrenaline junkies out there who love taking risks and drinking Mountain Dew. BASE jumping and extreme ironing are all well and good, but after the rush, you’re stuck standing there empty handed like a fool. Not with burglary. There’s the same sort of rush, maybe even more of a rush, AND you get something to show for all your hard work. From Shawn’s place alone, I stole a small Hello Kitty cock ring, a surprisingly sticky picture of Pat Sajak autographed by Vanna White, and a scratched DVD of Duece Bigelow. Quite the take. Yes. Quite the take indeed.

Next On Danger Queue: GUTS vs Glory—Let’s Go To Mo For The Results!

Sucking on either gives minty fresh breath.

RYAN: Toes. Yeah, that’s right. Toes. Those little things you sing about going to market or staying home. Those things that some of you out there, most notably Shawn and that creepy guy from The Bachelorette, love to suck on. Yep, those little things you take for granted everyday, naively thinking they do nothing of value. Well, stop being so naive, you idiot! Toes are one of the major cogs that keeps the well-oiled machine we call the human body moving. You know that walking thing you do all the time? To the bathroom? Out of the bathroom? Back to the bathroom? Yeah, that’s because of toes. They provide the balance, weight bearing, and thrust necessary for walking. Go ahead and take your shoes and socks off and thank them. Give them a little air too cause they’ve been working hard all day. Walking’s no easy business, and it’s not made easier by Tic-Tacs. That much is for sure. Have you tried walking around with Tic-Tacs? Of course you have. Everyone has. The sound of those little mints shaking back and forth is certifiably the most annoying sound in the world. I heard someone almost got fired from their job because of that sound. Sure, it was in an episode of Seinfeld, but the point is still valid.

SHAWN: Unless you’re a middle-aged mom, a special needs student, or Ryan, there’s probably no excuse for still singing to your toes. There’s also no excuse for not having minty fresh breath. Mmm, with breath this lip-smackingly fresh, I could make out with any girl I damn well please. Ah, yes, this random woman who is definitely not my wife will work…and, yes, she enjoyed it. And it was all thanks to a brilliant little product called Tic-Tacs. Formed from God’s own image in between the 4th and 5th days of Creation, the Tic-Tac was given to man so he no longer has to smell like fish all the time, especially when he’s one of those ridiculously close talkers that doesn’t seem to be aware of his problem, but you don’t want to embarrass him by pointing out that he’s invading your personal space like he’s Hitler and you’re Poland. Sure, Tic-Tacs may jangle in your pocket, but it’s only because they’ve been brilliantly engineered into small, suckable tablets that may click-a-clack a bit, but no more than Ryan’s metal testicle he got after that Wii Fit accident does. And maybe me and my buddy from The Bachelorette and the Baldwins all like to suck a little toe now and again. The only way we can still do that and be as suave and handsome as we are all is clearly thanks to what we suck afterwards—the Tic-Tacs. Suck away on whatever fetish you want! As long as afterwards it’s Tic-Tac time. And put your shoes back on, Ryan, it smells like Danielle Steele’s vagina in here.

Tic Tacs: The only option.

RYAN: Thank God he took the time between the 4th and 5th day to make Tic-Tacs. It’s not like there’s a million other products out there that give the exact same fresh breath without turning us all into walking maracas. Oh, wait, yes, there is. See all those packs of gum and mints at the checkout aisle? Yeah, all of those. Those are all better options than Tic-Tacs. Whenever I buy something, I first think “Is this going to compromise me on any spy missions I may have in the future?”. That’s why I stay away from shiny buttons, constricting pants, and shirts not made of mesh. And definitely Tic-Tacs. Cause if President Obama needs me on a plane this minute to make a HALO jump into the heart of China, I need to be ready in a moment’s notice. I need to be… on my TOES! I don’t have the time to first ask someone to hold my Tic-Tacs for me. Thanks, by the way, for making no argument whatsoever against toes. I can’t blame you. Toes are the best. Without toes, we’d all be hobbling around like a bunch of one-legged pirates with severe constipation. You clearly must love toes too, since you already admitted to sucking on them. Or do you suck on them because you hate them so much?

SHAWN: Sorry I didn’t tear toes apart as much as you hoped. I was too distracted by my awesome Tic-Tacs. Aww, yeah, Tic-Tacs. Don’t listen to Ryan, my friends, your sweet click-a-clank jangle jangle is the only noise that keeps me going, like a baby’s laughter or when Ryan hears the school bell at the local elementary school. I still haven’t noticed, though, that your ONLY argument against Tic-Tacs is that it’s noisy. You must be a blast to party with. And no matter how many pairs of dark sunglasses, three-piece suits and ladies’ underwear you wear, you are not going to be called in for any spy missions any time soon. As for toes—you better brace yourself—they’re the vestigial tail of the human body. Useless. Sure, they may help you balance a little, but without them we could easily find another way to weigh the body, possibly with large breasts. But when was the last time something good came of a toe? You know what happens to toes? They get stubbed, stomped on, infected, licked by me—yeah, nobody wants that. Plus, most people aren’t as freakishly sensitive to a little noise as you are, and they probably won’t want to stick with you, chewing gum together in your monastery.

Oh, yeah, thems some nice toe cleavage.

RYAN: Clearly you’re illiterate, cause anybody who can read would know that I also pointed out how there are a million other things that also give fresh breath. Tic-Tacs aren’t special, just like you. They can easily be replaced and nobody would know the difference, just like you. If we tried replacing toes with, as you unbelievably suggested, large breasts, I think people would notice. I’ll give you credit for going with large as opposed to small breasts, but still, the idea is horrible. There’s no way people could walk around on large breasts. Unless you want everyone to bounce around like they’re wearing moon shoes—no, no, the idea is horrible. There’s no replacing toes. Sure, every so often they get stubbed or stomped on, but it’s worth it. Besides walking, they provide us with a little thing called “toe cleavage”. Yeah, toe cleavage. Go head. Look it up. I’ll wait. It’s just like regular cleavage, but for people like you who have unhealthy thoughts about toes. But hey, way to contradict yourself, saying toes help with balance immediately after calling them useless. I guess helping with balance isn’t considered a use, hmm? Maybe next time you can call thumbs useless. You only use them to hold things, review movies, and suck on after I completely dominate you.

SHAWN: I may not be special, but you sure are. I said large breasts could replace the balance component of toes; I didn’t say the breasts would be on your feet, you freakish monster. Maybe you’d like to see giant silicon balls rattling around at the end of your children’s size 8s, but, yeah, those won’t fool anyone and that’ll probably make finding adult shoes that fit even more difficult for you. And even with my licky lick and rubby rub whenever I see a fine foot, I still can’t believe your closing argument is toe cleavage. That’s like pointing out how awesome asses are because of coin slots—and I’ve seen you in your skinny jeans and know damn well there’s nothing good about coin slots. Either way, there are better ways to balance than via toes, but—although there are alternatives—there is no better way to get minty fresh breath than with Tic-Tacs. First of all, you got yourself a phenomenal flip-top lid (cutting edge design right there) for easy access to deliciousness. Secondly, you have an array of flavors, most of which have “mint” or “orange” in the name—mmmmmm. Ninethly, have you seen the double packs? Not a-one, not a-two, not a-nine, but a-TWO flavors of greatness in one. Fourthly, they’re like the most popular mint ever. So, what does this all mean? Well, that makes about 912 positives about Tic-Tacs compared to—what was that you said about toes?—ah, yes, toe cleavage.

Next On Danger Queue: Archery vs Burglary—Nothing Like Firing a Fine Arro…Where’s My Arrow?

Stuff your sorries in a sack, mister!

SHAWN: If there’s one blanketing truth in this world, it’s this: we all make mistakes. Yes, even you, even I, even Eddie Murphy. EDDIE MURPHY! Hell, if the Oscar-nominated star of Beverly Hills Cop has made a mistake or two, you can’t even pretend it’s not the human condition. But, lo and behold, the man who once paid to sleep with a dude, got a Spice Girl preggers, released an album of original music, and starred in Pluto Nash is now releasing a children’s film. For children. How could that be? Well, that’s thanks to the power of the heartfelt apology. It’s like a Get Out of Jail Free card, quite literally for many. Why waste away with regret or punishment, when a coy little “I’m sorry” with some big eyes will get you out of any jam? The heartfelt apology is the only way to combat the human condition and uplift the world to the fun-loving, Eddie Murphy-watching world it once was. They wouldn’t call it “fucking up” if there wasn’t a way to help it get you to the top.

RYAN: Speak for yourself. I don’t sleep at night under the same blanketing truth as you and the rest of you sinners. I live my life mistake free, something my wife will surely attest to, and I demand that same level of perfection from everyone. You, me, you, especially Eddie Murphy. And when someone comes up short, as they so often do, I refuse to believe any apology, no matter how heartfelt, is enough to get then off the hook. Doesn’t matter what kind of misdeed—paying money to sleep with a dude, shooting someone in the face, eating my last Nutty bar, appearing in a movie with David Arquette, whatever. If we keep letting people get away with these serious, hurtful crimes, they’re going to keep doing the same things. That’s why I choose to hold eternal grudges. When someone does something bad, they know they’ve become a failure in my eyes and there’s no going back. Forgive and forget? Please. That doesn’t work. But eternal grudges? Now that’s a deterrent.

Those are prescription shoes. Back off.

SHAWN: You live your life mistake-free? Is that why you wear mismatched shoes, have one functional arm, and never talk about your life between ’91 and ’96? Interesting. But here’s the thing: you still have a wife, at least three friends and the most successful blog in computing history. And that, sir, is a testament to forgiveness, even if you don’t ask for it. You may not be verbalizing your heartfelt apologies, but when you only stabbed that guy once, it was clear that you felt sorry and stopped. That’s what got you off the hook. And are you telling me that if you had a supporting role in See Spot Run, we should reject you for the rest of your life? Because the world seemed to forgive Anthony Anderson, star of a little show called Law and Order! Our society’s built around forgiveness, and it’s the only path to greatness. Where would we be without the work of Roman Polanski? And it’s all because we were willing to forgive him. I mean, everybody needs a little rapey rape sometimes.

RYAN: I don’t remember people forgiving Roman Polanski. I remember him not being able to step foot in the United States without facing jail time. That doesn’t sound like forgiveness to me. In fact, that sounds like America, the little country that could, holding an eternal grudge against him. I for one am in full support of America and the grudge it continues to hold. Frankly, everyone else should be too. If it weren’t for America’s amazing grudge-holding ability, then that sexual predator would be back in this country up to who knows what. Is that what you want, Shawn—this country to be flooded with sexual deviants? I sure as hell don’t. Think of the children, Shawn. Okay, now this time, try thinking of them without touching yourself. If we were to forgive everyone for anything after a measly heartfelt apology, then prisons would be empty and the streets would be filled with murderers, rapists, thieves, and drunk drivers. As for Anthony Anderson, yes, he should be shunned for the rest of his life. We’re almost there too. Law & Order is the last bastion for actors desperately seeking work. As far as I’m concerned, he’s getting what he deserves. See Spot Run. Seriously. Did they even fax the script to him, or just a single sheet of paper with how much money he would make?

Okay, in this scene, Anthony...ah, screw it. Do whatever you want.

SHAWN: I’m sorry: I guess a freakin’ OSCAR doesn’t count as forgiveness in this day and age. Sorry about that, Polanski. And I’m assuming you think letting Michael Phelps return to swimming is a crime against nature, Mr. Grudge? Wrong! The only crime against nature either of them has ever committed is statutory rape. And I’m not sure what America you live in, but I live in a country that seems to be great allies with England, and you may remember them from the Revolutionary War when we murdered many of them. Oh, and you may also remember the South, whom we also murdered and for some reason still get along with (save Texas). Both of those countries threw away their confederate flags (or in some cases hung them lower) and apologized, and it all worked out. Plus, that’s what this is all about: the apology. We still need prisons and hangings for criminals because quite a few don’t suck it up and give a heartfelt apology. And in other cases some do apologize and we, as a country, forgive them by electrocuting them. It’s called mercy and it’s in the Bible somewhere.

RYAN: Oh, so we have to keep the prisons because some people don’t give a “heartfelt” apology? But who is to be the judge of this clearly well-thought-out system of yours and determine if an apology is heartfelt enough? Surely not you. You’re easier to buy than Christmas lights in January. You’d be letting pedophiles and serial killers off the hook for a box of Girl Scout cookies and a free tire rotation at Jiffy Lube ($19.95 value). Even if you didn’t sell out, how would you know when an apology is heartfelt? Oh, that guy didn’t shed enough tears in his apology. 20-year sentence. That guy’s puppy eyes weren’t puppy enough. Life sentence. And that guy’s lip wasn’t quivering enough. Death sentence. Just admit your whole system is horribly flawed with subjectiveness. Eternal grudges, on the other hand, come nowhere near subjectivity. Do something wrong and it gets held against you for life. No excuses. No exceptions. That’s easy enough for even you to remember. Maybe we as a country haven’t been sticking to it as much as we should, and I blame the liberal media for that, but there’s no reason why we can’t switch to it now.

Next On Danger Queue: Tic-Tacs vs Toes—Minty Fresh Breath Guaranteed

How's that phrase go? All something and no something makes something something something?

RYAN: Work! Work! Work! I sure love to work! Monday through Friday, when I wake up, the first thing I think is “Oh, boy, another day of work.” Spreadsheets, printer jams, meals in the lunchroom, structured bathroom breaks—to be honest, I can’t believe I get paid for it all. Simply having a reason to wake up in the morning is enough payment for me. Before work, I wandered aimlessly through life. Now I have a purpose: entering data and streamlining inter-department processes through enhanced coordination. Maybe sometimes I wish I could be sitting at home playing Playstation all day, pwning a bunch of 12-year-olds like it’s my job, but that thought gets lost in the excitement of the bi-weekly preliminary planning meeting at real job. That’s where we discuss what we’re going to discuss in the upcoming planning meeting. Needless to say, things can get pretty crazy. Pretty REAL crazy. Last time Todd wanted to talk about running reports off the new database, but it wasn’t on the agenda! The look on Steve’s face! Oh, the drama! It’s like an episode of The Hills. Except real.

SHAWN: You think work is fun? Well, clearly, sir, you have not experienced the other end of the spectrum—something called play. Awww, yeah, it’s like printer jams, but with Frisbees and basketballs and games on video screens. Okay, okay—you don’t get paid for it, but you can choose whatever play you want. And, trust me, there are a lot of different kinds of play. You say you wish you could be sitting at home with your Playstation sometimes? Well, my enemy, it’s time to get your play on. You don’t even need a boring preliminary meeting to play: it’s impromptu! Sure, it sounds like your meetings can get a little crazy, with Todd running reports that weren’t on the agenda, but play can get crazy too. I mean, this last time, we were all playing basketball and all of a sudden realized we didn’t want to shoot ourselves in the face. When was the last time THAT happened at work?

Stop slacking and finish those TPS reports.

RYAN: If work makes you want to shoot yourself in the face, you should probably go ahead and pull the trigger. Work is too important to have undedicated loafers like you slow projects down by spending all day on writing non-work-related emails and chatting it up with friends on Gmail. We’ve got work to do people! You can talk with “Kevin” and “Melissa” and whoever else about the Britain’s Got Talent results on your own time. Yes, I’m just as upset about Susan Boyle as you are, but I sure can’t afford to waste time discussing that and playing with novelty brand flying discs all day. These spreadsheets don’t compose and evaluate themselves, okay? Between the hours of 9 and 5, all I focus on is work and only work. And seeing a project completed makes it all worthwhile. That and the money. How much do you get paid to play? Oh, yeah, that’s right, nothing. You just said that. Good thing your mom doesn’t charge rent for the basement, otherwise you’d be in trouble.

SHAWN: Whoa, whoa, whoa—I don’t believe we’re arguing that only work OR play should exist. Danger Queue was founded on discovering which is better and damn it all if play doesn’t take the delicious cake and then eat it leisurely. Work has its place—the bank—but play is by far the more outstanding choice. Hell, there are a couple people out there who manage to combine both—basketball players, porn stars, the Noid—but when it comes down to choosing one or the other, you gotta go with play. Composing spreadsheets? Evaluating spreadsheets? Speak English! Speaking of, do you know what language is universal? Play. No matter where you are, everyone would prefer fun, whether it be old-fashioned tai chi in China, drinking wine along a crowded street in Italy, or playing a round of Hide the Grenade in Iraq. It’s play! You know what? I’m going to invite Kevin, Melissa and Susan Boyle over right now for a little bit of Wii, some beers, and maybe a round of naked Twister (right hand on red, Boyle—and, yes, I painted my dick red) while you finish up your pivot table. Hope you can get tipsy on nesting IF functions.

Someone got into Shawn's red dick paint.

RYAN: Enjoy playing your Wii and drinking all those beers. Wait, what? There’s no Wii and there’s no beer now cause instead of working, the Nintendo and Natural Ice employees are sitting in a room all day playing Mafia. Oh, well, you can always go throw the novelty brand flying disc around in the front yard of your mom’s house. What? There’s no more novelty brand flying disc! And you don’t have a house! Oh, what a horrible world! Relax, Shawn. It wasn’t real. But see what happens when everyone says “fuck it” to work and goes out and plays all day. Nothing gets done. The Wii you play with, the red paint you cover your dick in, everything, it’s all gone. Yes, play can be a wonderfully good time, but that doesn’t make it better than work. For as much fun as play can be—and who doesn’t love a riveting game of naked Twister—work is what makes the world go round. Work is what makes play so grand. Without work, play is boring and repetitive. To confuse the founding principle of Danger Queue—which is better—with some half-assed principle like “which is more fun” just to win an argument is an insult to the millions and millions of readers who come to us for the answers to hard-hitting questions. If they wanted something else, they’d go to other sites, like, oh, I don’t know, just the first one off the top of my head: SaveOurUnicorns.com.

SHAWN: The founding principles of Danger Queue? You know as well as I that we both created this blog to get laid (Editor’s Note: Mission Accomplished!), so let’s not pretend it’s anything more than that. That being said, fun is still better and all the Nintendo employees in the world (I’m looking at you, Kirby) wouldn’t disagree. You can’t value play without work and you can’t survive work without the wonders of play—we’re mutualistic; fine, whatever. But let’s just break this down to the dream level, which only goes one way. Of these two things, which do you dream about doing while you’re doing the other? Yeah, that’s what I thought. When was the last time you were playing novelty flying disc or naked Twister and thought, “Man, I could be unjamming a copier right now”? Unless ‘unjamming a copier’ is code for God knows what awful act, then you sir have just been handed a plate of whoop-ass, served extra spicy. I’m not saying to go all Amy Winehouse on work and completely forget that the only reason you can run around a resort all day stealing drinks is because you actually worked once, but play is totally where it’s at. Why else would you spend all day tirelessly trying to develop red dick paint if you don’t intend to every use it? Play is the passion that makes work worth doing. Put THAT in your spreadsheet and format it.

Next On Danger Queue: Heartfelt Apologies vs. Eternal Grudges—Friends Are Forever…Unless They Mess Up

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Let's hope it doesn't land on its side again.

SHAWN: Feet? Useless. Elbows? Useless. Shoulders? Useless. Heads? NOW we’re talking! The most important feature of any human, animal, mineral, or woman, heads are clearly what make the world go round. Put eight of ‘em in a duffle bag, you have a movie. Make them talk, and you have an unstoppable 80s band. Hell, tack on “start” after it and you have one rockin’ nonprofit! Woot, woot! Imagine trying to kiss someone without a head; smack someone without a head; headbutt someone without a head. What would you do instead? Smack asses? The head is the cherry on the human ice cream sundae and, dammit, that sundae’s nothing without the cherry.

RYAN: Tails! Not only is it the lovable flying fox from the much-heralded Sonic the Hedgehog franchise, it’s also the most dominating presence in coin flips, winning nearly half the time. When I make my yearly bet on the Super Bowl coin toss, I always bet tails. No doubt about it. Do I win? Doesn’t matter. I love tails, and clearly God does too, since he put them on pretty much everything: animals, fish, kites, animals, you name it. Even we had tails before that stupid thing called “evolution” came along and ruined everything. Really though, there’s an easy solution to this conundrum: would you rather get tail or head? Look, head may be nice, if you’re 16 and sitting in the TGI Friday’s parking lot, but I’ve moved on from those horribly awkward days. I’m 25, and now I eat at Red Robin.

This place is hopping!

SHAWN: If you think it’s awesome that tails comes up nearly half the time, wait until you see what heads has been up to. Oh, yeah, it’s been coming up APPROXIMATELY half of the time, suckah! I’m so into heads that sometimes I scour my home until I find a coin and just have an impromptu coin toss right then and there. I’m wild! And, sure, God put tails on a lot of things, but you noted one species now sadly left out of the mix—one IMPORTANT species—humans. Well, besides you. Maybe that vestigial tail was what made you miss out on so much head, though, because it’s just as delightful in grown-up life as it was in that TGI Friday’s parking lot (or if you’re classy like me, Olive Garden). Awww, yeah, head is great in any regard: sexually, pervasively, and—oh, yeah—it holds your freakin’ brain. Where would you be without that? Not at Danger Queue, no doubt. Probably making pictures for some blog about unicorns or some shit.

RYAN: You must not think very much of our readers if you expect them to believe that you, a married man, get head. Even if by some miracle of all miracles your proclamation is miraculously true, you’re grossly wrong when you say head is great in any regard. Maybe you forgot about a little thing called head… on a beer. If someone hands you a beer full of head, you don’t say “thanks”. You say “What the fucking fuck?” Cause head ruins a beer, just like it ruins so many other things in life. Strong? Yeah, that’s great. Headstrong? Not so much. Be? Yes, I do enjoying being. It’s one of my favorites. Behead? I think I’ll pass on that. Plus, everyone knows the tails side of a coin is way better than anything you might find on the other side. Oh, look, the heads side has a head. How original! What’s the tails side got? How about an eagle, a historic building, a flaming torch, a landscape, ANOTHER EAGLE! Jealous much, heads?

I get it. It's "tail" instead of "tale". Cause it's a mouse.

SHAWN: An eagle? A building? A torch? A guy whittling? Make up your mind, tails! At least heads knows what it is. It’s heads, so why not put up a picture of freakin’ heads on the coins? As an etymological superstar, I can speculate with complete certainty that tails was only named that because it was once a picture of a tail. But then it had to fuck it up. Heads or pyramid? Yeah, that’s catchy. Quit being a douche, tails, and remember your roots. And, sure, a lot of head may ruin a beer, but you know what else ruins one? Finding a tail in it. An American? Yeah, that’s me! An American Tail? Ugh, make that mouse stop singing. Bone? Yes, please. Tailbone? The one bone only mentioned when it’s broken. Cat o’ nine? Sure, I love cats! Cat o’ nine tails? Ouch! Yeah, tails has had its fair share of screwing things up. Remember when Sonic the Hedgehog games were good? The first one? Thanks for nothing, Tails. It’s pretty easy to figure out which side is far superior—just use your head. You know, the part of your body doctors don’t call a “freakish abnormality.”

RYAN: Bone? Cat o’ nine? Really? I haven’t seen you stretch that much since the time you dropped a Cheetoh behind the couch. At least that time it worked and you got to enjoy that delicious, dust-covered Cheetoh. All you did this time was show people how preposterous your attacks on tails really are. Tails is above those kinds of shenanigans. Tails is… wait for it… head and shoulders above that kind of stuff. Sorry if you had one bad experience finding a tail in your beer, but maybe you should stop buying beers from the toothless hobo that hangs out in front of Walgreens. You really shouldn’t let that one little incident change your whole outlook on tails. Tails is great. Maybe we don’t have tails, but that doesn’t mean heads is better. We also don’t have a dorsal fin, but nobody’s about to argue that heads is better than a dorsal fin. Cause dorsal fins fucking rock. They give sharks, dolphins, and Rosie O’Donnell balance and stability for rolling and turning in water. Tails are just like dorsal fins, only for land. Freakish abnormality? More like freakish awesome-ocity.

Next On Danger Queue: Work vs. Play—There Will Be Fun, Dammit

Only one pizza chain will come out on top.

RYAN: Man, I’m so hungry right now, but all I’ve got in my wallet is this crumpled up $5 bill where some schmuck made Lincoln look like a mustachioed porn star. I suppose I could go to McDonald’s, but then I’d have to stand there waiting like a chump while they cook my food. There’s always Subway, but their sandwiches aren’t hot. No, I need something that’s both HOT and READY. Something delicious. Something inspirational. Something like… Little Caesars! Of course! How could I be so fucking stupid? For the past five years, Little Caesars has been changing the way we think about pizza with their $5 Hot-N-Ready pizzas. No more 30-, 40-, 200-minute waits. You walk in with $5 and, if by magic, you walk out the door mere seconds later carrying a delicious pizza of your choice. Cheese, pepperoni, sausage, cheese, whatever you want. If you can scrounge together an extra dollar or two, then might I suggest adding a bag of Crazy Bread to your order? You won’t regret it. Oh, man. Crazy Bread. My pants get tight just thinking about it. I usually buy three at a time (one for the car ride home, one for dinner, and then one for the next day). Then after I finish off an order, I like to smell the inside of the bag for a minute or two. Seriously. That’s not a joke. I do that.

SHAWN: So, what, you think Crazy Bread is the end-all for delicious? You, sir, clearly are an idiot. We live in a crazy world and bread isn’t the only Little Caesars delight that needs Xanax. Maybe you should try some Crazy Sauce. Awwwww, yeah, a mixture of marinara-type sauce with a little butter-soaked bread and consider my pants jizzed. And, no, MS Word spell check, I wasn’t trying to write “jazzed.” Sure, there are jerks out there who may say, “But I can also by an extra value meal for $5 at McGross-as-Fuck or a 90-piece chicken fries at Burger Communist.” Well, maybe my stupid nemesis didn’t get the point across. These are $5 LARGE pizzas. There are enough immense pieces of doughy, cheesy, sausagy goodness to feed many. Not that you’d want to share, anyway. I say, if you have friends over, order one for each of them. What? Scared of leftovers? I know, I know: some pizzas (I’m looking at you, Dominos) taste like shit reheated, but not the Little Caesar. Not only is it so good you want to eat it twice, but Little Caesar himself loves it so much he has to SAY it twice! I can’t even think of anything else ever I would love enough to say twice. Orgasm, orgasm? No thanks. Hook me up with pizza, pizza.

Awww, yeah, baby, talk crazy to me.

RYAN: I think you forgot to mention the fact these delicious pizzas are only $5. Oh, wait, yeah, you did. Right there. Regardless, $5!! To get a deal like that from somewhere else, you’d either have to order 5 pizzas, Photoshop your own coupon, or go down on the delivery boy. We’ve all been down those roads before, but now we don’t have to. Not when Little Caesars makes ordering a pizza way easier and way less messy. Speaking of messy, why are you even wearing pants when you eat Little Caesars? That’s just asking for trouble. At the very least, you should designate a specific pair of pants as your “Little Caesars pants.” That’s what I did. Now I don’t need to worry about dripping pizza sauce, wiping my hands, or ejaculating while I stuff my mouth with Crazy Bread. And for the record, that’s Crazy Bread without any Crazy Sauce. Yeah. I’m a purist. I don’t want any watered-down marinara sauce making my Crazy Bread less crazy. I won’t hold it against Little Caesars for having it though, even if I do think it completely ruins the Crazy Bread experience. I know there are some pussies out there who can’t handle all that craziness in their mouth at one time. And clearly you’re one of them. Pussy.

SHAWN: A pair of special Little Caesars pants? If they weren’t the same as your “going down on the delivery boy” pants, I’d say that was an almost not entirely stupid idea. Hell, I’d love Little Caesars stains on EVERY single pair of my pants. If there’s any way to keep the smell, taste, and touch of a $5 Hot-N-Ready with me all day, every day, consider Heaven useless. And I’ll give you that Crazy Bread is just as fantastical on its own—I’ve shoved those buttered sticks into my mouth without their gooey sauce plenty of times—but Crazy Sauce is yet another outstanding Little Caesars product. Maybe I just like to up the Crazy Bread experience. Maybe I just like to take my Little Caesars to a whole new level. Maybe I’m willing to dish out the $.35. Sure those are all entirely accurate, but there’s another level of Crazy Bread-ness you’re missing: the Crazy Bread Hot-N-Ready. Granted, it’s a little DIY, but have you ever put a few pieces of Crazy Bread right there ON your pizza? Yeah, I’m having a triple orgasm right now just thinking about. You know, the same feeling you have with the delivery boy.

The pizzas aren't the only things hot and ready.

RYAN: It’s okay to be jealous of my Little Caesars pants. Not only are they covered in Little Caesar stains, but they’re also Zubas. The elastic waist is easy on my stomach as I stuff myself silly on Crazy Bread and $5 Hot-N-Ready pizzas. And I find the electric colors to be comforting on the eyes. That’s how I enjoy my Little Caesars, not by creating some disgusting Frankenstein food concoction of Crazy Bread, Crazy Sauce, and pizza. What is wrong with you? Seriously. Just thinking about all that ruined Little Caesars makes me cry inside. You might as well just dump all that otherwise wonderful food in the trash for all I’m concerned. Clearly you don’t truly enjoy Little Caesars if you’re so busy trying to combine things to “take them to a whole new level.” There’s no level after perfection, Shawn. And even if there was, Little Caesars would already be there. So stop being so damn greedy. $5 Hot-N-Ready pizzas. Crazy Bread. If you want more, just order a side of their mouth-watering chicken wings. Sure, I haven’t had them before, but if it’s Little Caesars, then it’s delicious.

SHAWN: Oh, funny that you suddenly think the chicken wings are mouthwatering—even though you never tried them—because everything Little Caesars makes is “delicious.” I call shenanigans! Dare I direct our readers to your comments about Crazy Sauce? Dare I? Who’s committed to the cause now? That being said, those wings are probably amazing. And how dare you then call a combination of Little Caesars foods disgusting? Crazy Bread? Good! Hot-N-Ready? Good! Diet Coke? Good! Why not combine them? You (and the delivery boy) should know more than anyone that experimentation is a good thing. Now, don’t get me wrong, I am in no way trying to say that Little Caesars is anything less than perfection, but there are ALWAYS more opportunities for perfection. Do you even remember Little Caesars before the days of the $5 Hot-N-Ready? Before the Baby Pan!Pan!? Before they could be found in a K-Mart near you? It was still delicious, but it actually got delicious-er! It is possible! So why not see what other magic this—the finest of pizza chains in the world—can devise? Meanwhile, I’m going to down another pack of Crazy Bread and keep telling people the butter caused the pants stain.