The Horse-Child

It was one of those games, where you are playing in a town that smells like cow manure.



It was one of those games where all of the fans were over 60 years old.



It was one of those games where your bus driver said really odd off hand comments all the time, and it all kind of sounded like slurred words, or some variation of "Don't slip on the ice outside blalahahahahalalaghahaahhaahagahahg."



It was one of those games, where you wish it would have lasted forever.



And by last forever, I mean "never happened."



The worst part about not playing "alot" and by "alot" I mean "ever," is that if you know someone at the game, it can become mildly embarrasing, especially when after the game they ask you if you need any assistance pulling the splinters out of your ass.



No, thank you. I am fine.



In an attempt to foil the spectators of the game into THINKING i might actually be a contributer to the team, I decided to take OFF my warmup.



This way, if someone strolls into the gym, say, 10 minutes late, they will see me, with my warm up off, and be like, "Oh, that kid probaly plays."



Or maybe it's like, "Oh, that kid probaly starts, and dunked on somebody, but hung on the rim for too long, so the coach benched him, cuz he doens't want him in foul trouble for crunch time. That's probaly it."



But unfortunately, this spectator is sharp, and they realize I am not sweating. At all. This is when I decide to ask my teammate to "hold the rope" and splash some water on my arm.



"Hey, dude...this is gonna sound weird, but could you splash some water on my arm?"



"Fuck you Dart."



I then decide to do it myself, but then the spectator again showcases their wit and observational talents.

The conversation would go as follows.

"Um...i noticed you didn't play. But your warm-up is off, and you appear to have a collection of moisture on your left arm, and your left arm only."

"Um...yeah I actually started, and I had this dunk, and i hung on the rim for too long, and coach pulled me out, cuz he didn't want me in foul trouble for crunch time. You showed up late."

"So, you sat for the remaining 38 minutes?"

"Yeah, and I have a rare condition where i make up stories to make it seem like I am better at Basketball than I am, and whenever I sweat, it only happens in an 8-inch radius on my left bicep."

"Wow. I honestly don't believe anything you just said."

"You shouldn't."

Thankfully, this conversation never happened, but I had time to think about this on the bench, in between flexing my buttcheeks to the beat of "Don't stop believing" and "Sandstorm" (Which is really difficult, by the way) and staring at the half-horse-half-4-year-old towel boy on the baseline.

Rarely do I get distracted watching adolescent boys watch collegiate basketball games, but this was without a doubt one of those times.

The boy literally looked like a horse. There was no discrepency there.

He had oversized teeth, a head that was disproportionately large compared to his body, and a tail and saddle on his back.

During time-outs, he would gallop out onto the court, get up on his hind legs and go "NNNYEEEEEAAAHHHAHHAAH"

Then the athletic director would chase him out of the gym, because his hooves were ruining the gym floor.

Then it was off to the glue factory.

Actually, during actual play, he was constantly scarfing down on a seemingly endless vat of popcorn. The best part about it was he was unable to chew with his mouth closed, which is understandable, as his lips flared out like the half-boy-half-horse that he is.

When the popcorn fell onto the floor beneath him, AKA "playing surface" AKA "The fucking basketball court, where a game is going on." He would eat the popcorn on the ground, directly resembling a horse grazing on grass, and the popcorn pieces he missed, he would drag ONTO the floor with his broom that he never used correctly or at the proper times.

Some of you might be saying, "Sean, why are you so critical about this horse-child? He is young, and you should cut him some slack."

To that, I would say, "NNYYYYEEEEEEEHAAAAHHAHHAHA."

Some might argue that an animal noise is not a valid response to a question. I would argue that it is the ONLY response to a valid question.

I'd love to stay and chat, but the Kentucky Derby is tomorrow, and "Horsechild" needs a good nights sleep so we can win the big bucks, and more importantly, a moral victory for all the half human-half animal children across the world.

To liberation, and to shitty basketball games.

What's That Funky Smell? Steal my Things.

Returning to North Hall from your family, friends and comfort of your own bed is like taking a vacation to Hawaii, staying for a night, just long enough to un-pack your bags, then hopping back on the plane to return to shitsville, USA.

Except on your way home to shitsville, your plane crashes in a fiery tragedy, and you die a slow painful death in the abyss of the Pacific Ocean.

Hands down, the best part about returning to La Grande and North Hall at EOU is the mysterious stench that is now permanently lingering througout the halls.

I liken it to a dead animal, mixed with rotting cheese. It has officially overtaken all of North Hall and I am assuming by the end of the week, I will no longer have walls, as the stench will most likely descinegrate the drywall, and singe off the paint, and my eyebrows.

December 26th may very likely be the most depressing day ever.

It's the day that every person who didn't get every single thing they wanted for christmas go out to the stores, take back their shitty gifts, and exchange them for cooler things.

Because that is what Christmas is all about.

I had the terrible misfortune of shopping on the 26th of December, AKA yesterday, because I was purchasing some gifts for some friends. Belated christmas gifts, if you will.

Anyway, if I had a dollar for every spoiled little brat I saw in the store throwing a fit because they didn't have the right XBOX 360 game available, I would have multiple dollars. Because this happened multiple times.

So, I did what any good semeritan would do. I delivered forceful clothes-line's to every little punk-ass complaining about their christmas (mis)fortune.

You wanna see some holiday cheer?

Apparently, it's not socially acceptable to impose your will on small children in public forums, so the manager at EB Games was totally pissed, and told me I had to leave, or he was never accepting one of my game trade-in's again.

To this, I said "Fine, 15 bucks for the new Grand Theft Auto is a rip-off anyway."

I then proceeded to body slam him while the little punks watched, and to prove my final point, I distributed one copy of "Smackdown: WWE v.s. Raw" to all the children.

Some would call is modern day Santa, some would call it illegal. I would call it holiday cheer.

I've also decided the best way to spend your birthday is in a car, on icy roads for 7 hours.

I've also concluded that the single best part about your birthday is Facebook comments that say "Happy Birthday."

It's a great day when you can get 9, count 'em, 9 wall posts that say happy birthday. It's only 7:30 right now, so i figure I've got 4 and a half more hours to go, if i can get...say...15 wall posts by the end of my birthday, I'm thinkin' that's probaly a world record or something.

As the proverbial cherry on top of my exquisite winter break, I traveled 7 hours to get to La Grande today, and I forgot my keys. My RA had to let me in, and i can no longer lock my room, because I have no way of unlocking it. Due to my lack of keys.

So now I have a laptop, an Ipod, a digital camera, some Men's Health Magazines and a framed picture of Mark Wahlberg that can all be stolen at any given time.

So, to any readers, this is an open invitation, room 215 is having a yard sale. Except they are all my belongings, and you are NOT welcome to take them. But after saying this, technically, there is nothing I can do to stop you.

Unless on the off chance I hired a guard dog named Spot who stands 8 feet tall, breathes fire and has an incurable craving for college-student flesh.

But that'd be weird.

Zoo-Key-Knee Muffins. Floor Licker.

It's a Friday night, and in my typical pre-bedtime web surfing, I found a very interesting video on oregonlive.com.

It is a video of a 5 year old chef who has his own cooking show.

This kid is unreal, check out the link.

He's making Zucchini Chocolate Chip Muffins, which doesn't even sound that great, but considering the fact that I didn't even know what a Zucchini was until Junior year of high school, and the fact I still can't spell Zucchini correctly, this kid is pretty damn impressive.

Arguably the best part of the show is it's title. Kitchen With Food. It's straight forward. Gets to the point. Doesn't mess around.

Probaly the most adorable thing is when he keeps asking his mom for directions while on camera. It is so cute. No Michael Jackson.

"This is...uh...one tablespoon of...uh...salt? Mom what is it? Oh, yeah sugar."

This got me to thinking about childhood in general.

What were you doing when you were 5 years old?

Playing with toys, watching Barney?

As I recall, I had just taken my first steps, I said my first word, "Zucchini" and I was still breast feeding.

Meanwhile, this little punk is a miniature Bobby Flay, hosting his own food channel, and making food with ingredients that I can't even spell.

When I was 5, I was watching Power Ranger episodes, and i got my foot stuck in a Ninja Turtle toy car, because I was trying to Rollerblade like the people in the Power Rangers episode. All I got was alot of soap on my foot, and a lasting experience. Since then, I have yet to put my foot in any toy cars of any kind.

Thanks Power Rangers.

Anyway, I have decided I am going to marry very young, and find an ideal breeding partner also known as 'wife' and hopefully she is masterful in the kitchen, because my new goal in life is to raise a mini chef that will make me lots and lots of money.

Rachel Ray seems ideal, but I could possibly settle for Paula Dean, or maybe Candace Parker. You can teach cooking. You can't teach 6'4.


Anyway, throughout this time in the vacant dorms at EOU i have discovered several things about myself.

I am really good at keeping myself company. If you give me Facebook, a good NBA game, a guitar, and some rubber gloves, I can make a good time for a good 3-4 hour period of complete lonlienss.

Also, I discovered i am terrible at grocery shopping. I spend way too much money, and buy way too much food.

It's kind of like the Y2K scare, where everyone stocked up on food, cuz they thought the world was ending. That's what I did, except there was no Y2K scare, there was just a week without Hoke Cafeteria. God save us all.

The best part about grocery shopping is the different kind of people you have encounters with. And oddly enough, it seems like you find certain people in certain aisles.

For example, I was for some odd reason in the "Hamburger Helper Aisle" and there was a mother with two children. One 3 year old and one that looked to be about 11 or 12. The 12 year old was on her cell phone, and the 3 year old was licking the ground of the undoubtedly squeaky clean Safeway floor. The mother was enfuriated that her 3 year old would do such a thing, cuz he would totally know better.

Then right as she was about to repremand him, her attention drifted elsewhere.

"Hey! Get away from th....oooooh, 5 cheese pasta-roni!? With Meatballs!"

Then the most classic part about it all, was that the mother then assigned her 11 year old daughter to have the responsability of keeping the 3 year old from licking the floor.

"Hey, would you take care of him?"

Then the daughter, half asleep texting on her cell phone says yes, only to stop what she is doing halfway through, because her phone vibrated.

I can't imagine what this 3 year old floor licker will end up being.

My first guess is he will either be a drug dealer, or a box of hamburger helper.

I hope for all our sakes, he becomes a dealer.

Now that I have all this downtime, I think I will brush up on my cooking skills, so I can give this 5 year old a run for his money. However, I don't think audiences would find a 6'7 18 year old mispronouncing Zucchini and mistaking sugar for salt quite as adorable.

But I am really good at baby talk, and with all the technology out there, I figure you could easily take 10-15 years off my life, especially if I am on my knees.

No Michael Jackson.

Who Throws a Shoe? Eastern Oregon Penitentiary.

Winter break is here, as is the snow, and naturally, so is the boredom.

According to an RA on my floor, there are 12-18 kids in the dorms, which means I am 12-18 times more likely to go insane.

Thankfully, pissed off Iraqi journalists keep me entertained.

If you haven't seen this, watch it.

After studying this carefully, and many many times over, it is clear President Bush was at one time a Ninja with cat-like reflexes.

Or a cat, with Ninja-like reflexes.

Also, apparently he used to be a comedian, saying in the aftermath of the shoe-chucking incident that he thinks the shoes were size 10.

But he also certainly must be a liar, because those shoes were coming at him at a rapid pace, and there's no way one could decipher the difference between a size 8 and a size 10.

Also, it is apparent that the whole thing was just a big misunderstanding.

Just prior to the shoe being thrown, Bush said a phrase in Arabic. He was trying to say, "First off, let me say It's an honor to be here, and I wish for great things and a prosporous future for Iraq and it's people."

Turns out, he said, "I will give one hundred dollars to the person who can hit me the hardest with a random object. "

The Iraqi journalist later went on to say "I noticed his dress shoes when he walked into the room. They looked uncomfortable, and perhaps a little tight on him. I wear size 10, so I was just trying to help him out. Looking back on it, I probaly shouldn't have violently threw them at him. Maybe next time, a gentle toss, or perhaps a hand-off would be more appropriate. My apologies. Obama '08"

That was completely sattirical and sarcastic, so don't take it seriously.

I like to compare being stuck on campus during winter break to serving a 2 week prison sentence.

We have to put up a piece of paper on our doors that says "OCCUPIED," cuz the RA's ran out of printer ink to say "THESE KIDS DON'T GET TO SEE THEIR FAMILIES AND HAVE TO STAY IN LA GRANDE FOR 2 WEEKS. ALL OF US ARE SORRY. REALLY, REALLY SORRY."

You get your mandatory physical exercise with 2 hours of basketball practice, and an hour of weight lifting. Whether you like it or not. And for the next few weeks, coach is applying a 'bitch' rule, where if you lose in any games in practice, the person who beat you has ownership over you for 24 hours.

The cafeteria is closed, so we are forced to provide food for ourselves. As a poor college student, desperate times call for desperate measures. So, I decided to live on Iams and Puppy Chow for 2 weeks. I have already developed a healthy coat of fur, I've been licking myself alot lately, and I was recently put on a leash and shock-collar because I bit the kid across the hall.

Woof.

My roommate takes the whole prison thing a little too literally. La Grande can get mighty lonely in the cold winter months. Ouch.

Someone gave our RA a night-stick, and I think she is taking it too far, because if I turn my music up too loud, or slam a door, or breathe too loud, I am immediately put in my place. Yes maam.

And to top it all off, I am paying 120 dollars to do all of this. Prisoners at least get to stay for free.

Or for our tax dollars.

Hm...I'm feeling awfully rebellious.

I think I'll go throw a shoe.

Until next time, my shock collar tells me it's time for dinner. Or maybe i just stepped out of my 20 foot radius. Or maybe my roomie is feelin' frisky.

Woof.

The wheels on the bus go round and round.

There's the old logic that says no matter how bad things are for someone, there's always someone out there who has it worse.

Your dog will die of cancer, then somebody will come up to you and say, "Dude, there are kids starving in Africa."

Your parents will get a divorce, and someone will enlighten you, saying "Dude, there are people who's dogs die of cancer."

Then you will find yourself in Kenya, scrapping for a bite to eat, and somebody will come up to you and say, "Dude, there are people whose parents are getting divorced right now. And some of those people also happen to have dogs. Dogs that die of cancer."

As if this is supposed to make ANYONE feel better?

Yeah, my dog just died, but at least I have a full stomach.

I've decided to apply this logic to my own life.

After a weekend that was just short of spectacular, finals week on deck and 3 weeks in the vacant dorms to look forward to, I've decided to compile a list to make myself feel better.

Let's call it...

"Things worse than a ten hour bus ride to get your ass kicked by the #1 team in the nation after being ahead at the half, and also losing to a team that your high school's JV team could put up a fight with...List"

1. Your suitemate deciding to move the drum set from "Rockband" into his room. The walls are very thin, and my patience is consistently tested in the form of "BANG BANG BANG BANG" in a rhythmic pattern, forced to listen to songs like Lit's "Own Worst Enemy." I actually used to like the song. Until it was completely ruined by Rockband and plastic drum sets.

"God Damnet. This song is fuckin' hard. Shit! I guess I'll do it again. Even louder and more obnoxiously loud. Oh, it's 2 a.m.? I bet my suitemate isn't sleeping. He's probaly at basketball practice or something." BANG BANG BANG.

2. Drew Gooden's facial hair.

3. Getting made fun of by OIT's fans, especially when you don't even play. I was literally just listening to Coach Looney give out instructions to the team, and I looked up, to see an older lady staring me directy in the eyes.

I stared back.

"Hey 42!"

Me: "Oh god...what? I'm just standing here. What could this elderly woman possibly have against me? My poor posture on the bench? Was I slouching? Did I forget to grab a towel for the starters when they came in?"

"Hey! Hey 42! BOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

Me: "Really? Boooooo? Who does that?"

Her kids started to join in. All 5 of them.

"HEY! 42! BOOOO!!! BOOOOOO!!!"

Later in the game, i was gazing off behind the bench, only to find a kid who couldn't have been a day over 14 tap his friend on the shoulder, and whisper "Hey, doesn't 42 remind you of..."

As soon as he said "of," I immediately shifted my eyes from him to back on the court, in fear of more embarrassment.

So, for now, I am going to assume the next word uttered out of this kids mouth was "Brad Pitt."

Why yes. Yes he does remind me of Brad Pitt.

"BOOOOOOOOO!"

4. The Holocaust. That was pretty bad.

5. Staying in the dorms for 2 of the 3 weeks of winter break. And having to pay 120 dollars to do so.

6. Nickelback.

I feel better already.

Shifting gears, I have started to pick up on some of the slang that many of my teammates use on a regular basis.

For example, this weekend, I was accused of "clowning."

I believe the context was "Yo', I went to dis circus, and dey waz Clownin'!"

I was later informed that I had made a humorous statement, and i was indeed, "clowning."

I was also told that I am someone's "guy."

Last I checked, I am not romantically involved with anyone.

"Dart, fuck you man. But...you're my guy."

Thanks?

"Man, Chamillionaire is the Hottest in the GAME!"

"No man, it's gotta be Lil' Wayne. He's my guy. But he's clownin' on his tracks, na meen?"

"Why did you go and buy that jewelry/and waste your scrill/ when I buy green diamonds/ It's a baseball field."

If this keeps up, pretty soon I will be everyone's guy, I will be clowning all the time, and I will be the proud owner of a major league baseball stadium. If that lofty dream is good enough for Chamillitary Maine, it's good enough for me."

Until then, I'm gonna work on getting my body clock back on track after 6 a.m. bedtimes, and hopefully pass some finals.