Horses can probably act. And by ‘probably,’ we mean ‘certainly.’

In readiness for Saturday’s (or Sunday? Saturday, right?) Kentucky Derby, here’s what it’d sound like if the Derby’s contenders re-enacted famous movie scenes. From a laughter filled email thread…

From Big Picture friend, D.O.:

Circular Quay: I told those fucks down at the league office a thousand times that I don’t roll on Shabbos!
Scat Daddy: What’s Shabbos?
Circular Quay: Saturday, Scat Daddy, is Shabbos, the Jewish day of rest. That means that I don’t work, I don’t get in a car, I don’t fucking ride in a car, I don’t pick up the phone, I don’t turn on the oven, and I sure as shit don’t fucking roll! Shomer shabbos!
Nobiz Like Shobiz: Circular Quay…
Circular Quay: Shomer fucking shabbos.
Nobiz Like Shobiz: Oh fuck it.

From Big Picture brother, Adam:

Street Sense: Who’s Any Given Saturday
Dominican: Ahh fuck!
(Beat)
Dominican: How do you shoot Scat Daddy in the back, agent Stormello? What if you miss?

From us:

Any Given Saturday: What does Marcellus Wallace look like?
Hard Spun: What?
Any Given Saturday:
What country you from?
Hard Spun: What?
Any Given Saturday:
What ain’t no country I ever heard of. They speak English in What?
Hard Spun:
What?
Any Given Saturday:
ENGLISH, MOTHERFUCKER! DO-YOU-SPEAK-IT?
Hard Spun:
Yes.
Any Given Saturday:
Then you know what I’m saying.
Hard Spun:
Yes.
Any Given Saturday:
Describe what Marcellus Wallace looks like.
Hard Spun:
What, I-?
Any Given Saturday:
[pointing his gun] Say what again. SAY WHAT AGAIN. I dare you, double dare you, motherfucker. Say what one more goddamn time.
Hard Spun:
He’s b-b-black.
Any Given Saturday:
Go on.
Hard Spun:
He’s bald.
Any Given Saturday:
Does he look like a bitch?
Hard Spun:
What?
[Any Given Saturday shoots Hard Spun in shoulder.]
Any Given Saturday:
DOES HE LOOK LIKE A BITCH?
Hard Spun:
No.
Any Given Saturday:
Then why you try to fuck him like a bitch, Hard Spun?

You can name all three movies, right? They’re pretty much give-away quotes. Give us your best in the comments.

FYI 1: That’s a picture of two horses fucking. The one on top may or may not be Barbaro.

FYI 2: Our milk money’s on Storm in May.

Advertisements

The Seahawk cheerleader tryouts: A first-hand account


Big Picture brother Adam had the awful task of attending the Seagals tryouts on Monday as an assignment for work. Talk about the grunt work that comes with being in the TV industry. We told Adam to get as much info about the event as possible. He did. Score one for obedience.

His words are after the dotted line.

I never gave the idea of professional cheerleading much thought until I was among a small, private gathering of media types at the Seahawks’ Qwest field Monday night for the final round of the Seattle Seagal competition.

Young girls look pretty, smile and cheer. How much more is there to it?

As it is, the only things separating cheerleaders from strippers, as far as I’m concerned, are a few inches of fabric, some self respect and a pole. Both dance for drunk, pocket-pool-playing men, no?

Thus I found it excruciatingly awkward and discomforting when the 60-some women spoke of their lifetime goal and current occupation prior to shaking their booties before the salivating celebrity judges. (Cheerleaders do work in the community throughout the year, I was later told) it was hard not to admire Roxy (No. 21, a server from Puyallup) for wanting to be a nurse since she was six and Britani M. (No. 32, a barista from Kirkland) for achieving her goal of climbing 300 stairs! All 300 of them! At once! No water breaks! I was so happy for her since she could only climb 30 at a time before trying out for the Seagals.

I can’t remember if Jenny the first grade teacher made the team, but she got hired a week before school and had to prepare her lesson plans in just one week! And she did! In a week! All by herself! Hooray! The idea of Jenny dancing for her students’ dads is incredibly amusing, by the way.

Lovely goals and dreams aside, the gals couldn’t public speak for shit. Clearly they were nervous — voice-cracking was easily audible. Hell, I couldn’t blame them. I would have a hard time speaking too with a jerk-off kid sitting in the corner (that was me!). Yet — and I was shocked to hear this — most girls were educated. I figured middle-school graduate would’ve qualified for an audition.

The majority were either in college (if Highline Community College does a. in fact exist or b. count) or had graduated from college. A few even went to Washington. I had a class with Jessica, No. 48 — public speaking no less. Irony! I think I probably tapped her on the shoulder once.

The event as a whole was so repetitive and boring I wanted to stab myself in the eye with a coat hanger. It was hours of similar-looking girls doing the same routine to the same song. Natalie C., No. 39, and Stephanie, No. 22, were my favorites. One brunette, one blond, one natural, one not.

Easily the highlight was walking in through the tight hall that doubled as the staging room for contestants. It was a wonderful sampling of all that is good and right with femininity: perfume, cocoa butter, cute half smiles (you get those when you’re with “talent,” I guess) and only a couple clear signs of eating disorders.

The competition ended as you’d expect. After all had performed, the results were tallied and the winning numbers were announced. Girls screamed and cheered and hugged and threw up, but mainly just hugged and cheered. They will be your 2007-2008 Seagals.

The others will probably be strippers.

-Adam Landres-Schnur