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I work as a counselor at a basketball camp for little kids -- y'know, standing around, blowing my whistle intermittently every 5 minutes or so (less fun than you'd think, actually), pretending to fairly officiate the kids' games...and so forth. Astoundingly monotonous and mind-numbingly boring -- pay's ok, though -- but that's not the point.
Each morning, the Coach in charge of the camp asks the chatty tikes if they've read the morning paper or have heard what's making news in the sports world. It's an incredibly stupid question, and one would like to think the plethora of blank stares and slacked jaws Coach recieves in response would key him into the kids' utter lack of information, or at least convince him of the daily questioning's unnecessary nature, but, who knows, perhaps the overly-eager raised hand and excited, "Ooh, ooh! I know!" squeal from the one -- or two, on a good day -- overachieving, sports-savvy 8-year old hip to the Chicago sports scene makes it all worthwhile. Maybe not. Whatever.
Today, Coach asked if anyone had heard the news concerning the Bears. In about as huge a shocker you'll ever come across, no one had. Coach proceeded to inform the pint-sized masses of poor Cedric Benson's fate, and, in immediate response, the hundred-or-so munchkins neatly assembled on the bleachers cheered -- nay, erupted -- in euphoric gladness. I kid you not: the crowd of 8-year olds stood, shouted, hooted, hollered for -- at the absolute least -- 25 seconds.
I don't know if that means much, or anything at all, but if news of your removal from the hometown team inspires that kind of reaction -- from a group of toddlers, no less -- looking into used-car dealership might be in your best interest. I'm just sayin'.
So long, Cedric! Thanks for nothing, you freaggin' bum!
Oh, and watch the door; it's been known to smack whining, untalented, quit-prone draft busts on their way out.
Good riddance! (Cue the angels' chorus, baby!)