No Shortage of Elmer's

From 1999-2000, Sportscenter provided a countdown of their 100 greatest athletes of the 20th century. While the people of Bristol compiled their list in the conference room, it is rumored that right before everyone decided on the 35th greatest athlete (and the last selection of the day), Stuart Scott leapt up, screamed BOOO Yah!!!, dropped an ounce of chronic on the table, and requested a TV timeout; Scott Van Pelt then rushed out the door yelling, "I'll get the Cheetos" and Mike Greenberg called his mom to pick him up.

Following this brainstorming session, the cast at ESPN had their unanimous pick for number 35, submitted their selection, and went home to sleep it off. Now, there are very few events in your life that you remember exactly where you were; the O.J. verdict, 9-11, my first viewing of a porno showing penetration, but the day I saw this pick, i remember the walls closing in, my palms going sweaty, and my outer body experience as I suddenly captured myself externally, doing one of those quick 360 degree shots from my shoulder up. "Sportcentury's pick for the 35th greatest athlete of the century...Secretariat."

At this point I went over to my bookcase and began to flip through my High School year book pictures. After careful analyzation, I found several horse-faces, Asses, and ponytails. However, I failed to find any horses. Why is this significant? Well last time I checked the dictionary, an athlete was defined as, "a person trained or gifted in exercises or contests involving physical agility, stamina, or strength; a participant in a sport, exercise, or game requiring physical skill." Therefore, Mr. Ed is no fuckin athlete!

Which brings me to yesterday's tragic news of the euthanizing of Barbaro, our reigning Kentucky Derby winner. Every year, a bunch of rich people wear atrocious hats, get ripped on bourbon, and cheer on various four-legged animals as they race around a dirt track. At what point of this forced relationship does a person's brain rationalize that this powerful beast is some how human? After all, no horse has ever said, "When I grow up, I want to be the best thoroughbred ever!" You know how I know this; I know this because horses can't talk. So the only people who should be crying over the loss of Barbaro are: the jockey who rode him (loss of winning purses), the trainer (loss of training fees), and most of all, Mr. and Mrs. Roy Jackson, the owners of Barbaro. If someone told me that people were going to pay me 6-7 figures to have my pet bust a nut in their female counterparts all day with no strings attached, and the only thing stopping this "Houston 500" was a critical condition broken leg, I too, would attempt every option short of orally searching for the antidote (At least I think I wouldn’t...it is a lot of money?).

Anyway, my point is, Barbaro was a talented horse, but he was JUST a horse. Yes they are beautiful creatures best used for Mariah Carey's semi-bestiality music videos, but their contribution comes up short on the social importance scale required to make front-page news for our national papers. I will maintain this stance until they start trying out for the school debate team or make homecoming queen... Unfortunately, with all you jackasses, I'm sure it's only a matter of time.