Two "HORS" and a "HO"

Today, my roommates and I decided to shoot some basketball—the only problem is that I haven’t played basketball in about 5 years.

The basketball court is surrounded by apartments, so while we were playing, people took it upon themselves to go out on their balconies and watch our horrible progression. 

I know it must have been funny to watch, as we played Horse.

In case you don’t know how to play Horse, I’ll explain.  If Person A makes a shot, then Person B must make that shot as well or take a letter—H.  If person A misses, then Person B can shoot from wherever they want without penalty if they miss.  If they make it, however, then Person C has to make the shot or receive a letter.  This pattern simply continues in circles until one of the players misses so many shots that they have spelled out H-O-R-S-E.

So, as I said, it must have been funny to watch us play as we continued to call each other by our prospective points.  For example, “ ‘HO!’ You can’t make that shot!” or “You are such a ‘HOR.’ “

As my skills slowly came back, I began to dominate.  In fact, I won every game.  I took personal pleasure in calling both of my roommates “HORS.”  In fact, most games, I was a “HO” while my roommates where the “HORS”—that is, until I won and they became the “HORSE.”

The only thing that upset me about today was that by the time we finished, we had an audience of guys, sitting on the sidelines, giving us pointers on how to play and then laughing at us as we played.

By the time we left, I wanted to patent the basketball bazooka.

That’ll teach you for criticizing my “shooting.”  I may not be as good as shooting hoops as I once was, but I’d still like to consider myself a good shot.

Horse Necrophilia

For the last couple of months, before I was accepted in the graduate program at USC, I temporarily got a job at an insurance investigation company.  Just saying that I worked for investigators made me feel like I had just stepped into a James Bond movie.

Avant.  Tiffany Avant.

So, on my first day of worked, I was super pumped.  I dressed quickly and even did a dramatic slide over the hood of my car before jumping inside and speeding off to work.

For the entire drive to work, I had the song “Secret Agent Man” stuck in my head.  But I couldn’t help it.  In my mind… I was a spy.

It wasn’t until I got to my new job that I had my illusion completely destroyed.

Now just for reference.  My dad’s side of the family is very, very rednecky.  So much so that Jeff Foxworthy is their idea of high society.  At any of our family reunions, there is usually one guy (not necessarily the same guy every time) who isn’t related to anyone, but somehow got invited. 

This guy, the one without teeth, who is drinking beer from a tea pitcher, will then decide that you are the hottest thing since Cindy Crawford.  From there on out, its very hands on.  He starts touching you inappropriately while laughing at his own perverted jokes.

Feeling uncomfortable yet?

Well, this investigation company was very much like that guy-- working there made me feel as if I was about to get physically and mentally raped.

After training at the corporate office, I thought I was prepared for anything.

For this job, I was responsible for managing the investigators.  It was going to be my job to make sure that they turned in their notes on time—since they didn’t seem to be capable of doing that, even though they’d been lectured about punctuality on numerous occasions.

So, after a couple of days of notelessness from one of the investigators, I sent him an email that went something like this:

I know you’ve probably heard this a thousand times, and I don’t really want to beat a dead horse about this; however, I really need for you to turn your notes in on time.  I can’t finish my work without those notes.  So please email them to me as soon as you can.  Thanks.

Now I didn’t think anything about this email after I sent it, but apparently I underestimated the ignorance level/redneckyness of my new job and co-workers.

The very next day, my boss pulls me aside and informs me that it is inappropriate for me to say that one of the investigators is having sex with dead horses.

WHAT?!?!

It was then that I knew I had to quit.

The investigator, somehow, got it into his head that I was accusing him of fucking dead horses. 

I just wanted his notes and instead got the strangest office protocol lecture in the history of office protocol lectures.

So much for being a super sexy agent in a 007 film.