Once upon a time, a site called The Black Table had a regular feature entitled Waxing Off, in which women gathered in an online roundtable to discuss issues of the day, and also to make fun of Will Leitch's shoes. And so we got to thinking: With so many great female sports bloggers out there, why not import the idea here? It's just crazy enough to work. So behold: The latest edition of Deadspin's Waxing Off. We found five terrific female writers who were willing to pen short pieces on this week's topic: What's the worst thing you have done to a sleeping/drunken friend? By now the story of ex-Patriots cheerleader Caitlin Davis has become legend. It all began when young Caitlin was photographed on a friend's Facebook page doodling with a Sharpie onto a comatose friend. Funny, except for, you know, the swastikas and stuff. We accidentally posted the photos, and now even the Pope has heard the story. So we asked the Waxing Off staff if they'd had similar experiences, and they grabbed their writing implements and got to work. Here are their stories of unspeakable pranksterism against the drunk. By the way, if you'd like to be part of the Waxing Off writing staff, email myself at [email protected], or Mr. Daulerio at [email protected].Trouble: Our friend was shitfuck drunk at 9 a.m. on Super Bowl Sunday, February 6, 2005. He passed out in a chair with his hand down his pants. Naturally, the rest of us were well on our way to joining him, throwing pretzels and the remote at Joe Buck on TV and having a funky chicken dance-off. Our friend – the passed-out one – had on his person: an Eagles cap, Eagles t-shirt, Eagles sweatpants and various Eagles and Yuengling badges and lanyards. His entire apartment is decorated in Philadelphia team gear: Flyers pennants, Sixers posters, and Phillies bobble heads. It's hard to imagine a more committed, die-hard fan of the Eagles, either. I have no doubt he knows what costume McNabb wore for Halloween in the third grade. Since his chainsaw snoring was impacting our enjoyment of the pre-pre-pre-game festivities, we decided to have a little fun with him. The other girls and I removed his clothing and accessories. He had on Eagles boxers, but we didn't have the stomach or the nerve to take them off. Instead, we sent the soberest fool to the mall to pick up a few Patriots emblems at a sports store. Now splayed in his recliner in a XXXLT Patriots t-shirt and pink Patriots hat, we photographed him (in between laughing so hard we risked puking) in repose. We girls tried valiantly to talk them out of it, but the guys insisted on duct taping his hand to his balls, to ensure a very painful awakening. Fortunately for our inebriated friend, he woke up a bit while they were lifting his big boy shirt. He mumbled something about "fucking fa——-" and puked down the front of himself. Those photos are cherished memories. — Trouble is a professional journalist and amateur racecar driver. Although she lives in Denver, Colorado now she is a third-generation Philadelphian and will not hesitate to boo at you, throw beer on your stupid ass, and overturn your car, you yuppie fuck. ————- Nikki: For the record, I'm not the kind of girl who does sleepovers with other girls. Yeah, I like fashion magazines and messing around with makeup as much as any girl does, but I draw the line at overnight girl-bonding nonsense involving chick flicks, pillow fights, and baking cookies. Ugh. I much prefer sleepovers with guys. Those are a hell of a lot more fun. And this is a story about what happened during a couple sleepovers with my ex-boyfriend. I'm a Phillies fan. The guy I was dating was a Mets fan. I know, I know — it was rather blasphemous for me to be dating The Enemy. (But remember, he's an ex, which is proof that I finally came to my senses and decided that perhaps a Mets/Phillies fan coupling was not the wisest choice. And considering that the Phillies won the World Series during the season that we broke up, I take it as a sign that the baseball gods supported the disunion of Phillies Girl and Mets Guy.) As expected, the two of us were always sniping at each other about our various baseball teams. ("Cole Hamels has a mullet!" "He does not! And David Wrong freakin' sucks!") It was all in good-natured fun, of course. And sometimes we'd play little baseball-related tricks on each other. During one weekend that he was staying at my house, I took a nap, and while I was asleep Mets Guy switched out the Hamels desktop background on my computer to one with Mr. Met on it. This, of course, was borderline unforgivable. Swapping out hottie Hamels for Mr. Met? I acted calm, but in my head, I was ready to wage some serious baseball war. Oh, just wait, I thought, until *next* weekend, when I was staying at *his* place and had access to *his* computer ... The next weekend rolled around, and as luck would have it, Mets Guy took a little nap. This was my opportunity! Once I was sure he was asleep, I snuck out of bed and over to his computer. My plan was to find some really cheesy-looking picture of Pat Burrell to save as his desktop background, and as an added bonus, I was going to create a cute little scrolling marquee for his screensaver, which would say something like "I love Pat's hot bat!" or something equally obnoxiously innuendo-laden. Boy, would he ever be surprised when he woke up! Actually, *I* was the one who was surprised. Because when I went to his computer and started typing in the characters "www.p" (because I was headed to www.phillies.com to find a nice picture of Burrell), I discovered two things: 1.) Mets Guy had apparently never heard of cleaning out his internet history, and 2.) There are a *lot* of porn sites that start with "www.p". And I got to see a pretty decent-sized list of Mets Guy's recently-visited porn sites when I was attempting to go to the Phillies site. Eventually, once I stopped giggling, I did make it onto www.phillies.com. That's right — I didn't get offended in any way by all the porn sites I now knew he visited during the five days a week I didn't see him. I mean, come on — in the back of our minds, we all know that all guys look at porn. Duh. It's just kinda funny when you're actually confronted with this knowledge on a computer screen that's a couple inches away from your face. But think about it: Ladies, wouldn't you rather have your guy check out porn on the nights you can't see him rather than have him go out and get some ass from some other girl? Yeah, that's what I thought. Plus, in addition to not being offended, I found the whole accidental-porn-discovery situation to be pretty amusing. (After my amusement subsided, I did manage to find a nice picture of Burrell for his desktop background on phillies.com. And I did put some awful "Pat's so hot"-type phrase on his screensaver. And, as expected, when he woke up, he liked these things on his computer about as much as I liked Mr. Met on mine.) So now you know — the worst thing I've ever done to someone while he was sleeping is inadvertently discover what a bunch of his favorite porn sites are (or at least the ones beginning with "p" — I decided I would allow him his privacy and that I really didn't need to see what interesting sites the other 25 letters of the alphabet might bring up). Oops. And to my credit, I was a cool enough girlfriend that I never embarrassed Mets Guy by letting him know that I got an eyeful of (as well as a good giggle out of) a bunch of his porn sites ... although, um, he might know *now*, since I know Deadspin's a site he regularly reads. (Hey, at least *this* site's safe for work, right?) — NIKKI is the snarky little so-and-so behind the humor website RED PEN, INC. A lifelong Phillies fan, she also talks baseball, cute pitchers, and pinstriped derrieres at THE BILF REPORT. ————- Samantha Benton: I'll admit it. I have been on both sides of the Sharpie. I have felt the felt, and I have drawn some barely recognizable genitalia on a cheek or two. Am I proud of it? Not really. Marker shenanigans are bush league pranking. But it was pretty fun at the time, to lose your senses in the booze and toxic fumes. Now, the worst prank I've been involved in with a passed out buddy happened to an unfortunate friend who passed out early in the day. We then stripped the guy down to his underwear and sat him on a lawnchair outside his residence. The end result was some sweet blackmail material and unfortunately a second-degree sunburn. However, during my youthful transgressions, you could call me a free agent cheerleader. I didn't have the responsibility of being a representative of a multimillion dollar institution. Thus, there are two points in Caitlin's case that I don't think leave her (or her Marine boyfriend) a heftier-cheerleader base to stand on. For starters, this girl is 19 years old. In almost no point of her short life has she not been able to access the interwebs. There is no way that she has not been exposed to some sort of cyber-stalking incident where someone got busted for bad behavior or a friend's Facebook/Myspace photos ended up in the wrong hands. Secondly, we're talking the Patriots here. They are litigious. I assume that she had to sign some kind of document stating that she was to uphold some standard of behavior-however low-to maintain status as a cheerleader. Basically, she had to have known that certain compromising pics would not be tolerated. So do I sympathize with Caitlin? Yes. Do I think she was wrongfully terminated? No. And now she has all the time in the world to kick a few back and be a regular college freshman. — Sammy lives in Portland, OR and loves to watch cheerleaders almost as much as football games. ————- Metschick: My story starts, as many do, on a plane to a faraway land. I was on my way to New Orleans. Okay, so I didn't actually drink on the plane. So I guess my story actually starts at the Royal Sonesta in the French Quarter. When I met up with my friends, there were beers all around. It wasn't long before we were all wandering around the Quarter, Hand Grenades in, uh, hand. For those of you who don't know, Hand Grenades consist of a shit-ton of alcohol. So of course I had two. Soon, it's dinner time, and a glass of red goes great with whatever the hell I had for dinner. After dinner, we all headed to Pat O'Brien's, to slurp down some hurricanes. The night's not over until I've had some shots of tequila, and then the group dispersed. (Losers.) I changed into my PJs, it's about 2 am at this point, and I'm getting ... restless. This is exactly what best friends are for. I called him to my room, and he quickly came. I see that I still had that magic touch. Anyways, we're laying on my bed, and he said I could use a massage. Clearly, my brain was addled by lots and lots of liquor, so I said yes. Kiddies, we all know where that headed, mainly because I told you during DUAN. There was no drawing on faces, no swastikas (that I can remember), so I'm sure you're all confused as to what was the horrible thing I did to him. Easy: I ensnared my commitment-phobe best friend, and we've been together for the past year and a half. We're now talking marriage and house-shopping. Gotcha, sucker. — Metsy can be found every Thursday at Ladies..., counting down the days till Spring Training. ————- Meghan: This week's excuse to tell drunk stories was inspired by the New England cheerleader who was fired after pictures of her surfaced next to a passed out guy with some anti-Semitic language on him. So, instead of regaling you fine readers of stories of me passing out, I thought maybe I'd explain the rules behind writing on your passed out friend. (Those drunk stories are a little hazy anyway.) The rules are simple and I was pretty good at following them. I managed to escape college without ever having a giant penis drawn on my face and you can too. The first rule is don't pass out in a public area. I was good at passing out in a bed, make of that what you will. The second rule is take off your shoes. Taking off your shoes theoretically means some thought was put into going to sleep. Most of my friends will attest, one sign that I'm drunk is that I take off my shoes. If they are at all uncomfortable, my shoes come off. At the bar, at home, on the walk home, where ever, it doesn't matter. A guy once, in an amazingly chivalrous gesture, carried me half a mile home because he wouldn't let me walk barefoot after I refused to put my shoes back on. In general, I was never one for harassing passed out people. My college houses were hospitable to the passed out friend. More often then not, when I got up in the morning and there was someone still sleeping on the couch. We hung out together too much to screw with each other like that. The retribution would have been great indeed. (Plus the guys I lived with did all sort of nice things like mow the lawn and get rid of mousetraps.) However, if you are in a not so friendly environment and break the rules, be prepared to be covered in lewd drawing done in permanent markers, having shaving/whipped cream placed on you, and having sideburns/hair cut or shaved. Or worse. — Meghan thinks you should set your facebook privacy settings to high, otherwise you shouldn't complain about that embarrassing photo of you floating around the internet. She blogs at girlsdontknowsports.