Beg For Your Num-Num

 

Part 24 of 30

The Mam & Pap

Royal Splendid Traveling Rodeo

We live in interesting times in terms of our expectations, what we think we deserve and what we can have. I’m thinking in particular about the whole issue of eating, the meals we’ve come to expect, and the meals we often down without so much as a moment’s reflection on it as provision. I crunched myself though a handful of chocolate candy crackers and wish now I could've gone slower.

The rodeo’s close to my heart, thanks to my dealings with many of the team of Mam and Pap’s show. And they dealt with a lot of these issues of daily eating that not only the people on the show were concerned with but also the animals. In fact, the animals are more insistent, have more boldness to say it than some of the people, stamping their feet, blowing steam out of their big meaty nostrils: “I’m here, I’m hungry, feed me!”

Before I go any further, not wanting an uprising among the natives of the internet, always at the ready with a big pot of water boiling and their several spears, alert to any veering from the socially proscribed mores of life and behavior, in this context the provisions of food for all, let me say I do support eating, with full-throated enthusiasm. Like everyone, I could afford to cut back a little; it’d be nice to cinch my belt a little tighter, 10-12 inches. But that’s me, not animals who have little understanding of wise dieting and would gorge themselves to death before the 4:30 show if given a big enough feedbag.

The story I’m telling as part of the celebration of Mam & Pap’s rodeo focuses on some of the characters, the staff of their show. And there was a guy who did it differently from most when it came to feeding his horse, a decent horse named Hoss. Hoss’ human companion was Old Dan’l.

Daniel, to use his fuller name, believed that Hoss needed to beg for every meal. Maybe if Hoss reared back like that several times a day it helped him keep physically fit. And it'd be a reminder if he ever needed to see something afar he could rear back and see it. “Beg for your breakfast, beg for your lunch, beg for your dinner” was all consolidated down into a command a horse could more easily remember, “Beg for your num-num!”

Which of those words would be key? Probably “num-num,” if we’re thinking of how food seems to us, something we chew, something we savor, depend on for nutrition, and enjoy. “Num-num, food good.” Even a caveman would understand it, it’d be a piece of cake for a horse. Whatever Hoss thought, he put 2 and 2 together and associated raising up and letting out a loud whinnying as begging for his food. And was never denied as far as I know. I observed the ritual maybe 10 times and the food was quickly given with the proper stance, response, and of course the actual begging, a series of vocalized noises.

I’ve thought about that many times over my own meals. My family used to say grace over most meals. Not potato chips, but anything more. Keeping in mind old Hoss the begging horse, it simplifies it for me now that I’m on my own. Just lift my hands like Hoss does, and whinny a couple times, I know the Good Lord is satisfied. And I can partake of the meal with a clean conscience, be it meat, potatoes, a salad, etc. One thing I don’t beg for is potato chips, even though I still like them.

Lincoln Declares Rodeos Good

 

Part 12 of 30

The Mam & Pap

Royal Splendid Traveling Rodeo

All roads, when you’ve taken one, finally, inevitably converge at Abraham Lincoln. That's the magic by which he became president. He'd had his hand in the game for 4 million years, when inevitability finally won out and bore fruit sometime between 1732 and 1865. Which went double for the rodeo, because if they had anything up the yin-yang in the old days it was magical happenstance, plus, different from us, a clamoring for horses and rodeos. Horses jockeying for position, jostling one another at the starting gate or just breathing freely on the avenue.

Look more closely and what do you see? A farmer brings cattle to town. The wife’s low on pin money. But with cattle you have confusion, always grubbing somewhere for something to chew and finally needing to be content with their cud. So cattle and horses were together on the street, with a cop trotting by. From his patrol horse he surveyed his domain, the great center of democracy, the poop-strewn streets of Washington, D.C.

The Great Emancipator himself held forth in the Oval Office, “Close the window, the wind is from the streets. And you,” turning to one of his most trusted grunts, “Smegma, get me the latest data from the patent office, is there any word on key patents toward the mass-manufacture of automobiles? The day we drive horses into extinction will be a proud day in the history of breathing.”

Of course I have only limited notes on what everyone said. And though I’m one of the country’s foremost historians, even I have never been interested enough to get down in the weeds of history and grovel for everything that’s ever happened or been said. If you ever try it you’ll find you’ve given up your own life — and to me the best invention aside the fully-tilted-back saddle has to be the easy chair.

But all was not rosy that day in Washington. I hate to throw in a sad note, but it was a truth the world had to face sooner or later. Lincoln’s own assassin — and I won’t dignify his name by looking it up and reciting it here — rode a horse. Which tells me something I never thought I’d share with any living thing, that in the ambiguous weeds of existence (horse or no horse) there’s a lot of evil mixed in with the supposed good. Yes, philosophers have always been familiar with the weird juxtaposition/play of good and evil — you can’t have one without the other — but it took by surprise even them, exactly what depths could be plumbed and how long someone was willing to do it to discover the whole hideous truth: If you think horses have ideals, it’s time to look for new opinions.

Yet, even against those odds, once rodeos got going it was mixed with anguish — weepers beating their breasts, crying out, “Why! Why!” Until finally they saw the light of day breaking through, which changed their tone: “An ambiguous evil can lead to an unambiguous good.” And on that principle — tangentially related by hook or crook to Abraham Lincoln — the modern rodeo was born and pronounced good.

Rodeo Tail-Flip Beats Dinosaurs

Part 8 of 30

The Mam & Pap

Royal Splendid Traveling Rodeo

World records are a lot of fun. Of course they take various forms, the big huge official stuff, like when the first guy ran the 4-minute mile. Which is what a good laxative can do for you. Then the unofficial stuff no one thinks of, and maybe it never happens, like, say, the guy who wore his dentures the longest without taking them out. Someone had to! Just glad it wasn't my dad.

And that record could be beaten by now if we knew all the details. My dad had false teeth and put them in a container at night. So obviously he had no discipline when it came to world records, unless it would be the longest unbroken streak of putting them in a container every night. If he would’ve striven to keep them in his mouth the longest, that might've been something. But he didn't care. If you want the glory you gotta have the guts to put up with a little discomfort. In dad’s case, he was too crabby to try.

I’m probably the world-record holder in something without even knowing it. You can do dubious things and honorable things. For example, I keep my lawnmower in the dining room. I needed a place to keep it so it wouldn't be stolen and my dining room's pretty safe. But how would I find the current world's record? I could even actually push it room to room everyday, with lots of world records attainable. But it's not a great distinction. A bigger distinction would be “The longest a guy’s kept a lawn mower in the Big City without someone stealing it.” And I can’t brag about that because the thieves would show up.

Mam & Pap were always looking for unique aspects of the show to advertise to bring out sightseers to share the glory, but whenever it seemed they had something it turned out to be average. Finally, the perfect rarity jumped its way to immortality, a horse whose tail cleared an extraordinary 9+ feet, the highest such clearance reported since the time of the dinosaurs, which was the distant past. Way back before the Pilgrims, before the Model T, and predating Abraham Lincoln, incidentally my spirit animal, totally ancient compared to me.   

The tale of the tail is a great record, having been scrupulously documented, the documentation now lost. I heard some yammering naysayers were disputing Mam & Pap's claim. To which I say, Give me a break! Mam & Pap lived a good moral life. If they said something about their horse's tail, their word's good enough for me! These people were good as gold, and their word better. But because dinosaurs are no more, obviously there's no way we can show a dinosaur's pathetic vertical leap again. Think about it, though, a dinosaur tale weighed around a ton and a horse's tail is about 12 ounces. Which would be more likely to flip higher with a vertical jump?

Lion Goes Berserk At Rodeo

 

Part 6 of 30

The Mam & Pap

Royal Splendid Traveling Rodeo

This one was supposed to be just something fun Mam and Pap put in the show once. Thinking they'd have a real distinction to be the only rodeo with a lion riding horseback. But instead for a while they were known for a tragedy. Unfortunately, the whole thing was a great disaster, and there may still be a few victims somewhere still waiting for settlements. The rudimentary sketch just before the mayhem show a lot of potential for a decent show, but lion/horse acts now seem doomed from the get-go.

In my opinion, and I see some of the trouble in the sketch, the horse was fairly afraid. And the way it is with animals — it’s the same with us — fear is contagious. The horse was afraid, the lion picked up the vibes, the horse became more afraid, the lion took on a bad vibe overload, and next thing you knew the lion leapt to the rafters of the rodeo tent. Swinging back and forth on the horizontal beam, he slipped into the stands. The panic of the crowd, while they should have remained calm, good advice always, was out of control. It’s a terrible thing to spook a lion. He went ballistic, his natural instincts being a predatory outlook when provoked, he took this very convenient opportunity to act out, and — please bow your head for a moment’s silence — several spectators were … unfortunately … lost… And a couple others got refunds.

Naturally, the horse was somewhat to blame for the mayhem, since when the lion leapt for the rafters he went straight up the horse’s neck, digging in for traction. Without featuring violence for violence’s sake — something I hate seeing in anything I read — a lion’s claws can do some serious damage and cause substantial grief in anyone or anything unfortunate enough to bear the brunt of one's earnest takeoff. Remember, a lion’s nothing but an overgrown cat, and like cats at home, they can rip your couch to shreds without even trying. The house cat, though, is quiet, unlike this roaring lion and the cry of dereliction from the horse in its terrible agony. I wouldn’t have wished that on my worst enemy, if there was ever a horse I considered an enemy.

Once in the rafters — again, the lion being an overgrown cat, really good for nothing but living in the forest — he was at a dead end and leapt for the side of the tent, completely out of desperation. His claws hooked in the cloth firmly, but with his weight he went right down the side, ending up with a rift in the tent from top to bottom. Screaming people fled through the hole. The lion, having freed itself from the cloth entanglement, fell the last 20 feet and crushed a young family who’d unfortunately faced some bad times just recently — little Ted’s pet mouse, a school project, had died, earning Ted a trip to the rodeo as payback.

Those with any sense — most lacked the sense not to scream during the onslaught of an injured lion — dove into the animals’ water tank. One guy — damn the luck — allergic to water immediately perished. Which you’d think he would’ve thought of before diving in. They later found a tag around his neck telling of his allergy, and advising, “If it’s raining, get me inside.”

Our hearts go out to him. Because when it rains, it pours. In a very real sense Tragedy and Violence mated that night and bore Death. Pap put it in his journal, underlining a rule that they adhered to for years after: “Do not allow lions within a country mile. They’re nothin’ but god-derned trouble.”

NOTE: No animals were injured or killed in the retelling of this fictional event.

The Rodeo Adopts Wild Horses

Part 5 of 30

The Mam & Pap

Royal Splendid Traveling Rodeo

Those who know me well know I’m something of a “whisperer.” Not that I’m really well-known for being quiet, but my normal way isn’t to bang a lot of pans and shoot guns in any unwelcome sense. No, when I’m on my way somewhere, I mind my business and get there in a subtle way, nothing announced. They look up, there I am, and it's a total surprise. “What the—? Don’t sneak up on me like that!”

Most of my “whispering” has been directed at my various dogs over the years. Telling them by pats and strokes and affectionate words and actions that they’re great and they and I are simpatico. I have, though, been afraid of animals like wild bulls, and so have taken precautions to avoid them. My dear old dad, often gored by bulls as a kid, told me if you ever walked in a field with a wild bull and showed even the smallest piece of red cloth, you’d be a goner. So being a person naturally inclined to a cautious demeanor, not only did I leave all red cloth at home, I avoided fields with bulls.

It's an interesting sacrifice, too, because I'm fairly drawn to red cloth. But you never know when a bull might show up.


Wild horses of course are not bulls, but six-of-one, who knows, maybe they don’t know what they are. They’re wild for a reason, and wildness carries consequences, and consequences can’t always be expected to be positive. In short, I’ve also kept a healthy distance from wild horses. And everything, really, I'm insulated. One of my biggest fears is that freaking out wild animals and finding myself dead or badly mauled enough to wish I were. That’s a low point in anyone’s life, prefering death to being badly mauled.

But anyway, I’ve sought out the experiences of those brave enough (foolhardy souls) to be animal whisperers. The rodeo gets some of these sensitive souls, and it helps them fill in the slate of performers on the cheap. For every wild horse you take in and no one’s mauled, it’s a boon to the show. Enough procurements like that and Christmas bonuses can go to every employee, so it’s win-win.

I’ve talked about this subject over the years with friends, and it seems like people are increasingly of the idea that wild horses prefer being wild. Which isn’t indisputable, naturally, since it’s tough to know 100% what horses think. But to me it looks like a horse is a horse and if it gets an occasional sugarcube it’s pretty well content no matter what the other circumstances are. My cousin had a horse that was hard to catch, but once you caught it it was content to be with you. Just don’t let it work up a gallop downhill and buck you off; that was it’s breaking point. Probably should've tried sugar.

Long live the rodeo horse, wherever they come from. May they give joy to cattle, clowns, and crowds. And as well receive whatever joy they would seem adequate for their psychological needs.

What Is A Horse?

 

Part 4 of 30

The Mam & Pap

Royal Splendid Traveling Rodeo

What is a horse? Sounds like a silly question. Since we know it's a big-nosed creature, simple to summarize. But it's like when we ask, What is a girl? And the answer is, unpredictably, sugar and spice and everything nice. Or a boy? Snakes and snails and puppy-dog tails. I heard that all my life as a kid and didn’t get it at all. It still doesn’t make much sense, like a secret code grandmas use with aunts and sisters to size us up. They’d be laughing and nodding, everything short of a high five. As if to say "This one's definitely a snail." Now I’m an adult myself and, like horses, deathly afraid of snakes.

An answer about what a horse is, like the boy and girl, could be something about the horse’s demeanor or interests. So a horse could be saddles and reins and equestrian brains. Or paths and trails and giddy-up wails. They are mostly known for being ridden hard in cowboy movies, or more leisurely down pleasant trails at a ranch, and of course rodeos. I used to go to trail ranches and the horses were so used to running back to the barn for a treat that they were sluggish going out and frisky going in. I nearly lost my life to a couple treat-happy horses taking the quick shortcut under low branches. And me, a paying guest sitting on their back...

For the western movie or rodeo the horse is the mode of transportation for going everywhere. You see some of those westerns and you have to think that we never would've made it trying to get across country on horseback or pulled. When I used to see movies of people in the stagecoach it never once looked like a good thing. But movies were plot-driven, so someone was always getting robbed, killed, or captured. And I wouldn’t want to be at the mercy of a horse walking a mountain path, although they at least have an interest in preserving their own lives while a car will purposely wreck if you don’t steer them right.

But what is the horse? Here I put my hand on my heart and look longingly into the paradise of the sky with profound thought. "A horse is a horse, of course, of course, and that’s all it ever shall be, of course.You can steer one east or west, or veer it back with force. When it completes its run it’ll be the same old horse. Or go to the north where live the brave Norse, they’ll stand and hold forth on the glory of their horse. Sometimes named Hrimfaxi."

In summation, horses that are lucky take the fast track to the rodeo, stay there performing, and enjoy the happiness of pleasing crowds the rest of their extremely-fulfilled lives.

Let's Go!

No. 8 of 31 -- Thermometer series

What a thrilling thing it is in when the planning stages are past, the organizing principle is embraced and celebrated, having given shape to your grand purpose, and you’re down to one last decisive pronouncement. I think of it like the jostling of horses, getting them into the starting gate. The handlers put up with all their crazy rambunctious ways, even though it's superfluous to the mission, running 'round the track without stubbing their toe. For they see in their mind's eye the final glory when their horse comes in first, and they at last have nailed the beauty queen, the ultimate reward.

Oh yes, there’s so much that goes into the planning of things. And it’s true what the psychologists say, "You can plan to fail." Or maybe that’s guidance counselors. Yes, I’m thinking of one particular guidance counselor, forever a burr under my saddle. I've had a graphic on hand to use against him for years now -- a killer graphic -- and I'll run it if I ever feel brave enough to take him on, lo, these many decades after his nasty business. But whereas he didn’t literally say, “You are planning to fail,” he insinuated everything short of it and everything past it. My key hit on that SOB, which gets to the heart of the graphic, is, “You first applied to be wrestling coach but settled for guidance counselor.” And you expect me to know what I want to do right off the bat?

I never plan to fail. But that doesn’t mean I always plan to succeed either. Let’s keep my idiot guidance counselor in mind a bit longer. Look at Thomas Edison or Henry Ford. Neither the guidance counselor nor I know what all those men went through to succeed on this or that invention. But it’s obvious that they didn't know everything about the end from the beginning. All along the way there had to be multiple dead ends and shaky results. Things went well, things went poorly. They trumpeted their successes, yes, and kept their failures to themselves.

But they were wise. They could’ve come up with endless bad inventions, just like any one of us could. Say we wanted to invent a device that killed horses on sight. You could do it. If you lived in their time, it would’ve been a mechanical thing, perhaps at the end of a chute leading to the arena. The horse has done it a hundred times, gone that way. But Edison changes it up and has a bow and arrow arrangement that kills the horse. That would’ve been a bad invention; no one would want that.

And yet, as wise as they were, how many people have been killed because of Henry Ford’s invention? I have no doubt that every time a family wrecks and gets killed on the interstate, Henry Ford’s spirit has a twinge. He can take some consolation in the fact that people have to die of something, so it may as well be a car wreck. A personal memory of mine, speaking of Henry Ford's evil, is I was almost killed on the interstate on my way to tour a mausoleum... How’s that for irony? And if Thomas Edison inventing the phonograph was such a great thing, how does he explain Milli Vanilli?

This whole thermometer series illustrates the problem from my point of view. There could potentially be millions of people blowing the tops of thermometers off from liking my blog, reading it, telling others about it, subscribing, etc. Which could have bad consequences, the shattering glass. Maybe they'll be reading it while driving and lose an eye, so I'll have to split the blame with Ford. Think of the pressure I could be under. I'm very private. As it is now, I have no worries, saying whatever I want, blathering away, knowing there’s no risk, there's barely anyone to be disappointed. I never have the danger of people unliking it. I'm never chewed out for the slightest thing. I do, however, always expect it. Take that paragraph about horses being automatically killed. I’m afraid people will unlike me for that, but there’s barely anyone here anyway, so what’s the difference?

Hmm. I want to say, “Let’s go!” Let’s get this blog party started! Do whatever you can, be the blog, let the blog be you, turn off your mind, relax and float on the blog, tell your friends. And when I come up with a Men’s Club for the blog, please join it. And ladies, when we come up with a Ladies Aid division, please volunteer to join it. Find a guy to sponsor you and you'll love it. Opposite sex partners, same sex partners, and single sex partner (do it yourself), and even non-sex anti-partners will be welcome. Just tell me in graphic detail how you swing and what your life expectancy is and you'll be accommodated.

Then someday — when I get entirely sick of the whole thing — I will take it to a tall bridge and cast it over the side, letting the turtles below deal with it as they may. That day, however, is not today. Today is time for us to go! Join with me! Let’s go, go, go!

Vigor Vivus Makes Absolute Horse Sense

I sincerely believe my posts on Vigor Vivus, the active principle of life in a person at its utmost quality, are what I was born to write. I'm always touched, in return, by the many cards, letters, emails, comments, smoke signals, tweets, and proposals for marriage I get. Your kind remarks mean so much to me, more than you know, although, as you would guess, I cannot answer each one, as I hate wasting time and money. But be assured, I take them into account in later posts. Today, for example, is an answer to someone who suggested that the horse, foremost in the animal world, is the personification of Vigor Vivus. I completely agree!

It's been three months, meaning it's time to check my Vigor Vivus levels. That's a great discipline, by the way, in case you've let yours go. Seriously, I don't think there's anything better you can do for yourself, be it a yearly physical, flu shots, or monthly prostate exams. Or be it going to church, furthering your education, taking care of your family, being kind to neighbors, donating to charity, adopting orphans, buying winning lottery tickets, praying for China, or stopping after you've been in an accident and/or yielding for the ambulance. Vigor Vivus is Number 1. I for one have kept up on mine, and I have to say, I feel healthy as a horse.

I can't think of any horse I've ever known that's been sick. They gallop right along, right through life, living in the sunshine, in the hay, in the clover, feeling their oats, staying frisky, raring back with cussedness, with nary a saddle sore. It's their spirit that leads us to handle them right, keep them groomed, tend their stalls, and never leave them to suffer without provender. I've always believed, and I've reiterated it a thousand times: The horse, foremost in the animal world, is the exact personification of Vigor Vivus, its express image.

Part of my discipline with Vigor Vivus goes back to my own upbringing. Also recalling the horse, Mom would brush me down, and of course Dad kept me trotting to accomplish some little task or other, both teaching me good values for riding tall. They were great and didn't nag much, raising me from the small pony boy I was to the full grown man I am today. I also owe it to them, the desire and ability I have today, to teach others, you. You can thank my parents, regrettably now deceased.

Without Vigor Vivus, the great life principle, the source of psychological and physical health, I'd be nothing. Yes, without it, I might stumble along, probably, well enough for a while. Just like the horse might stumble along, were it a lesser animal, but not win the race. You know the drill; it'd be in last place, going downhill, then kaput, fizzzt, like a wire shorted out. Am I right?

We must never forget Vigor Vivus' dreadful yet very real opposite. There's a scale that goes from the life principle, devolving to its opposite, Rigor Mortis. And even in Vigor Vivus, Rigor Mortis is still there in some quantity, however minute. That why we can say so-and-so has greater Vigor Vivus and how we can say there is a scale. The life principle can be lose the lead and Rigor Mortis can gallop ahead. God forbid! But that explains how a Hercules, Samson, or Jack LaLanne can die at peak health.

Would you like pointers on checking your Vigor Vivus level? If you say no, you either know how, or your levels are so low you're hopelessly lost in Rigor Mortis. I have a good discipline on how to do it. Put on some soft music or something with a good message. This morning I went with the old song by Tony Bellus, "Robbin' the Cradle." With the great lyrics, "They say I'm robbin' the cradle, little darling. Is it strange for true love to be so young?" Very inspiring. As that played a few times I sat quietly, head above, body below. For a while I closed my eyes, then opened them. Then one eye closed and the other open. Then switched. Last of all, I scratched any itch. Which, my mom always reminded me, horses also do, making a big production out of it, rubbing it against trees.

A very important part is to move thoughts around in my head. Move them to the left, then to the right, then distribute them back to their place. These are mental movements, you understand. There's hundreds of them. Any image with motion, any real life correlate, is useful. You might think of reining in a wayward, excited horse, and keeping it in a small pen to let it cool down. Whatever you do to check Rigor Mortis, Vigor Vivus pays off greatly, sometimes 40 to 1.

Vigor Vivus! Win, place, or show, it's all good. That's all I got today, no mare, no less. All of it making great horse sense.


Other great Vigor Vivus teachings:
My Vigor Vivus Health Plan
The Dawn of Vigor Vivus
Teens Reject Rigor Mortis
Vigor Vivus -- I Command the World
Rigor Mortis vs. Vigor Vivus
Your Basic Problem is Rigor Mortis
Unveiling the March of Vigor Vivus
The Unremitting Shield of Vigor Vivus
Vigor Vivus at the Dentist
Teen Talk: Rigor Mortis vs. Vigor Vivus
Rigor Mortis Nix, Vigor Vivus Best Way
Bin Laden Mortis vs. Obama Vivus
"For Entertainment Purposes Only." Added at the recommendation of a doctor friend.

Horse Doctor -- The Easiest and Hardest Job

It's something we hate to think of, even as we know it's absolutely true, that when all is said and done, the horse is the weakest, sickest, and most accident-prone animal there is. How many times have I heard it, even when I was growing up and they were shielding me from bad news, that another horse has to be put down. He tripped over a rock, he ran his leg into a tree, he stepped on a nail, he's trapped in a bear trap, he's choking, whatever. It's a sad story, but a very old story.

I trust it's well known that horses back in ancient times had to do a lot more than they do today. Pulling wagons cross continents, going off to battle, dragging sledges, and on and on. So whether they were massively stronger back then, one has to think so. All that's done now. You might have a horse pull a little buggy, taking the grandchildren for a fun ride, about 15 minutes, around the timber once a year. We look up and it's swishing bugs off its back side, and we're charmed. But if I'm there I've got my fingers crossed it won't get stung by a mosquito and traumatize the party. Especially kids.

I was talking with someone yesterday who was telling me she'd just read on Facebook about a horse having to be put down because it had colic. In case you don't know, colic is a twisting or kinking or a bend in the intestine, so it can't have a bowel movement. There's not much they can do about it except, you guessed it, put it down.  The worst thing about it, from an economic point of view, would be the major investment a horse is, big money. Those who raise them are taking a risk first, so they need to get a high price to cover their prior losses. Then you buy one and it dies, you're out. I'd personally never buy a horse. I'd rather take my chances on lottery tickets, instant loss.

In this discussion on the Facebook horse, it occurred to us that veterinary services for horses have to be kind of useless. Whatever the problem, "I'm sorry, but there's nothing I can do for your animal; it has to be put down." And there's the doctor, a big old practiced sad look on his face, looking down, pushing a stone on the ground with a toe. Fidgeting with his hands, waiting for an opportunity to shake hands with the owner and put a comforting touch on their forearm. Why? he asks himself, did I ever go into veterinary sciences, especially with horses? There's nothing you can do. So I'm left patting arms and feigning sadness. I could've been a therapist and, in addition to making big money, known survivors.

But that's the way it is. Horse doctoring is literally both the easiest and hardest job there is. Whether it's a broken leg, colic, foundering, sugar cube overdose, tapeworms, an aversion to snakes, raring up and banging its head on a beam in the barn, the solution is always no solution, but instead a quick dispatching of the animal, albeit as painlessly as possible, humanely done. With the pat on the arm being quite sincere, an expression of grief that is true. I've been there, I've known people who've been there. You get one of these beautiful animals, you get attached to it, and BAM, three weeks later, you're putting it down.

My imagination of how it is for the vets, to reiterate, they have to think, I went to vet school for this? There being nothing you can ever do for the horse. The good thing about the job is it's so easy, except, of course, for your own grief and having to help the owner through their grief and watching them deal with their sense of your uselessness; that part's very hard. You can see the wheels grinding in the bereaved's head: "You are the absolute worst excuse for a veterinarian." It's true, but you're trying so desperately to compensate with the arm pat, the looking down, the handshake, which aren't physically tough, but still never get any easier.

And there it is, another dead horse at your feet. Another damned dead horse!

What a thing! Maybe after reading this you'll spare yourself this certain grief and avoid getting a horse. Because I've seen it happen, don't think I haven't. It might be a five dollar horse or a million dollar horse. They die just the same, just like that. An owner gets a horse, she's beaming with pride, then the next thing -- three weeks later -- the animal's got a hangnail and has to be put down. Any little thing you can imagine, and there's thousands of possibilities, the end is always the same, brutal.

Mister Ed, This Is Your Last Chance

I'm giving Mister Ed this last jab, then that's it, I'm moving on. I've done my part for national security, which was only my duty, and now it's up to the higher powers, the higher echelons, to bring that one trick pony home. Oh, that takes me back, really, to my days on the horse show circuit, years ago. I truly thrill to hear the exhortation of the crowds to the horseman at the end of his showing to, "Bring it home! Bring it home!" What a mad dash it is to make good time!

That's also a good message to you, Mister Ed, "Bring it home! Bring it home!" Don't you feel it, just a little, the desire to make good on your duties of citizenship, to "bring it home" and face justice here in the fields of home, with those beautiful amber waves of grain? That's such a pretty sight, driving by a farmstead, with the horses standing around, munching their way from here to the fence, and swishing their tails to ward off bugs. I love it. And I believe you love it, too, Mister Ed. Maybe a fly creeping around by your eye, and the area around the horse's eye twitching, with nicely evolved little muscles there...

My words to Mister Ed today aren't actually "jabs," so much as hoping to talk American to American, mano a mano, rider to horse, man to pony, man to beast, humanitarian to equestrian, one on one, small nose to big nose, gaining his confidence, then slipping in the bit and adjusting the rigging. Yes, he roamed far afield, to the foreign fields of Hong Kong, Moscow, and Ecuador, a lot of far flung places, where, quite frankly, I can't see why any American would have anything to gain from going to those places. I certainly wouldn't want to range that far from the old barn back home.

I love it here, Mister Ed, and I believe you could regain your love for it, too. Of course I'm sleeping good at night, with a clear conscience, no worries, nothing beyond the day to day stuff: Will there be a mouse in the trap in the morning? Did I remember to give the dog fresh water last night? Are those pork chops that were on sale three months ago getting freezer burn? I'm definitely not worrying, at least too much, whether the Navy SEALS are going to storm the compound I'm holed up in, whether I'll be waterboarded by sundown, or whether I'll ever be able to live within 2,000 feet of a national security installation, then having to have a sign in my yard, "Registered National Security Data Thief."

I know, I know, it's all "alleged" at this point. Which I respect. That's one of the greatest things about America. You get the full measure of justice, whatever you're alleged to have done. All you have to do is avoid living in Texas or some other backwards place, and everything will be fine. So you may as well give yourself up, and get it over with. Tell you what, Mister Ed. Contact me at this blog, and I'll personally lead you to the police department, so you can get this weight off your back. You don't want to be saddled with guilt all your life.

The fact of the matter is -- and I guess I'm doing a little more leaking here than I should -- is that they already know where you are, and they're just biding their time before rushing in, trying to give you one last chance to do the honorable thing. I know if you do the right thing, I'll be proud of you. And rightly proud of my own efforts to talk you down. I'm something of a horse whisperer, as the old phrase goes. I soothe, soothe, and soothe, then gently work the bit in and the halter on, then BAM -- You're in the paddock, in the barn, in the pen -- clouds so swift, the rain comin' in, you ain't a'goin' nowhere, Mister Ed!

One last thing, lest anyone think Mister Ed is solely to blame for this national security fiasco. No, there's other horses in this race. He didn't just saunter in there and fill his saddlebag with 2 million documents without someone else being complicit, even if complicity is only measured in incompetence and lack of oversight. I remember many instances of dealing with government employees. They were sticklers for the rules. They wouldn't fudge on this form, this form, or this form, regardless of what common sense said. "You need this form of ID, this paper, and these records. Nothing less will do." But when Mister Ed was busy emptying out the mow, where was the thoroughness? Clearly, they were in their own stalls, dozing. Don't wake us when you're done...[snoring].

One more chance, Mister Ed, that's what you go, it's time to come home. Think how pleasant that journey will actually be. I know when we used to go horseback riding, ha ha, the horses were so used to the paths we took, they hated it. You had them going down the path, away from the barn, at a snail's pace. It took forever to get anywhere. But just you dare -- hope you're never this unlucky -- to get their nose pointed to the barn, then ... Whoa, Nellie ... they were deaf, differently advantaged as to hearing, there was no restraint. They zeroed in on the barn like a laser, and you were off at the same speed. I remember a limb coming at me at 60 mph, which could've taken my head off!

Please think of that, Mister Ed. Give yourself up, and come home.

Surrender, Mister Ed!

I was absolutely besieged with well-wishers and others singing my praises yesterday for my post, "We Got Bin Laden, We'll Get Mister Ed." I'm actually a little tired today because I didn't get much sleep last night. Readers from many time zones around the world kept me up. It was exhausting, but also very gratifying. It meant a lot to me.

And, I had to chuckle, there were even a few readers from Hong Kong, Moscow, and Ecuador who basically wrote, saying, "Please, get him out of our country or city!" It seems like they're afraid he'll get a job in their country next, then compromise their security by too much stealing. It just goes to show, whatever your nationality and whatever your background, you're paranoid about the same things as me.

But yesterday's gone. Now it's today. So I thought, you know, maybe I'd go to the well one more time, since I love your praise. The memories of it, after all, are still clear in my mind. My right arm -- my dominant arm -- is sore from the fist pumping. But it's a pain that I enjoy, because of how I got it, by pleasing you. Does that make sense? I really think I'm on to something: All I have to do is find some famous scoundrel in the news and publicly take him to task. And my blog really takes off! It's sort of devious, I know ... [devilish grin].

OK --- THIS IS AN OPEN BLOG POST TO MISTER ED, MY MANE MAN. LISTEN UP, MISTER ED! LISTEN TO ME AND COME OUT, WITH YOUR HOOVES IN PLAIN SIGHT. SHAKE 'EM, LET'S SEE THOSE FETLOCKS!

Mister Ed, I know you used to read my blog. You told me so that time you downloaded every entry of every blog on the internet and put them in everyone's individual file. As you recall, I was irate. The government I could handle. But you threatened to show it to my minister, thereby threatening me with excommunication. That was despicable. But I paid you off, and after a few months, it all went away. I can only assume you still visit here occasionally, although now that you're on the run, no doubt you have only stolen moments for savoring it.

So I will be brief. Mister Ed, all horsing around aside, the time has come for you to give yourself up. Do not make them have to capture you. If you give yourself up, that will be seen as a goodwill gesture, and things will be easier for you. They might even give you greener pastures. Only, please, whatever you do, for God's sake, give yourself up before you ruin our relations with the Ecuadorans. From there the dominoes could only topple, and we'd lose Mauritania, Togo, Texas, and the tiny island nation of Podunkia.

Honestly, Mister Ed, wither or not you'd admit it, you should've known better than to have (allegedly) stolen all our national secrets, including, you bastard, my data from the NSA, detailing all my alleged misdeeds, the foremost of which would have to be my spotty calls to my mom. I know the rap: You must be a terrible son, calling as infrequently as you do. And there she sits, with several diseases, staring almost hopelessly at the phone. And I know there's some stranger stuff in my file. Like when I called Al Qaeda. I swear, my call was nothing more than to ask them how they managed to have their name start with a "Q" and it's not followed by a "U." I didn't know that was allowed. It should be Al Quaeda, like that.

But enough about me. The government actually wants to geld you for showing the vulnerabilities of the NSA, that it's apparently overseen by three monkeys, See No, Hear No, and Speak No Evil. Whether they even have locks on the doors has not been established. They might've been "locking" the place with duct tape left over from the Bush administration. For you to have carried out over 2 million documents without a hint of suspicion sounds like quite a feat. I'm thinking back to that time I ripped one measly MP3 file off a neighbor's CD at 3 o'clock in the morning in the middle of the Sahara Desert, and the FBI was right there to pick me up, staying true to their warning label.

Do I relish the fact that you're in big trouble? you're wondering. You're damned right I do! It couldn't happen to a worse guy, after how you threatened me. And all my loyal readers -- you screwed them over too! Let's just say, you're something less than a thoroughbred... OK, Mister Ed, you get the message. Give yourself up today.

We Got Bin Laden, We'll Get Mister Ed

We got Bin Laden, We'll get Mister Ed. Even now, the world is swarming with agents trained in the mysterious arts of intelligence, top secret data gathering, and putting the finger on someone. Even if you're a needle in a haystack -- in this case don't eat the hay -- they'll find you.

Long live government snooping! Seriously, long live it. It's government snooping -- vast and broad -- that gives us the upper hand, the cutting edge, in the world. You think we'd know what was going on in North Korea if we weren't keeping track of things? And anyone who tinkers with government snooping, however slightly, or, as in this case, however enormously, needs to pay the price.

Good old Mister Ed thought he could stray from the barn, eat up all the crops, then gallop into the sunset, to the land of the rising sun, or close to it. Where, if I'm not mistaken, they sacrifice horses. But he didn't take into account that the world is a small place. There's no hiding place. There might've been one in 1900, when we would've have only a few blacksmiths looking for him. It doesn't work like that now. His being an expert in government power should've told him that. They'll soon have him back in the paddock.

Even the mighty bin Laden himself found he couldn't hide forever. Although we thought maybe he was dead. But they kept saying, "He's 7 feet tall and has a bad kidney." All we had to do is look for deliveries of extra large shipments of cranberry juice and the absence of bananas and soda pop. And that's where he'd be. Which turned out to be true. Not a banana in sight. Except it wasn't a cave, but a house somewhere over there. The bottom line: It was government snooping that got him.

Public enemy Number 1 went down. And now Mister Ed has nowhere to hide, neigh, withers 'o ever he may trot.

I truly believe Mister Ed's alleged crime, if he is eventually found guilty, would be a heinous one. (At this point, of course he is alleged to have done it. I would have even given Dr. Zachary Smith (Lost in Space) the benefit of a fair trial, were I one of the Robinsons, before finding him guilty and executing him, or leaving him alone to die on some godforsaken planet. My family needs safety more than a villainous plot device.)

If guilty, if Mister Ed had his way, we would be coming around the track, then entirely lose the lead we had in the war against terror. It wouldn't even be a photo finish, we would've broken a leg in the first turn. The war against terror, which, by some weird quirk in the nature of things was declared over about a week before these revelations, but which in all actuality rages on. Which might mean -- notice, I said might -- mean the destruction of every one of us. No one in the winner's circle. Although these catastrophes actually tend to never happen where I personally am. I've always been lucky like that.

Like I said, at this very moment the world is swarming with agents on the lookout. And we know our agents. They're familiar with all the usual suspects, not to mention every hooker from South America to Shanghai -- they'll find someone who knows something. Then, all bets are off, I wouldn't bet on that horse...

So what's the problem with Mister Ed's apparent actions? He stole our secrets and hoofed it on out of there. The simple fact of the matter is, some things are meant to be kept secret. Not to be flip about it, that's why we call it secrecy. We don't want anyone else to know. Whether you like the Patriot Act or not, the American people consented to it when we elected all the various assholes who were prepared to ramrod it through in our hour of panic. If you don't want such things, either quit putting scum like that in office, or stop panicking when something terrible happens. Look at things in context: 300,000 people die of cigarette smoke every year, we don't have to get so worked up over 3,000 that we instantly forfeit our rights.

I say we get the guy. Or conclude that the whole system is rotten to the core and do what you can to bring it down. Just don't look to me for support. Because I'll skewer you then just as much as I'm flogging Mister Ed today. And the only way I'd ever recant is if you happened to take over and instituted a Rein of Terror. Then and only then, for personal reasons, wanting to cling to life, even with my scruples so terribly compromised, I'd support you. Even though Rains of Terror, again, never seem to happen where I personally am -- I'm always left high and dry.

Now, does the government have any culpability in this matter? Yes. Mister Ed was several lengths ahead of them. Anyone so incompetent as to have him working there and downloading 2 million documents under their nose shouldn't be complaining. They're probably not smart enough to complain. Where's their horse sense? Search his feedbag at the end of his shift! Let government snooping begin right in the government's own office! Are you not paying attention, you dolts? Hell, he might've carried away the whole place before you woke up! I've worked at places where people noticed a sip out of their Coke, which turned out to be evaporation ... but the key thing is they noticed something was awry.

Buckets: An Incredible Synchronicity

I've never been one to see meaningless coincidences. Only a few times. Once a guy said to me, "I don't believe in coincidences." And I said, "What a coincidence! I was going to say the same thing!" Usually I just think, It's a big world. The same things happen to everyone. Of course there's going to be similarities and parallels.

But then, like it or not, it starts getting creepy. You've got on a blue shirt, some other guy has one. Your brother gets a speeding ticket, someone else you know gets one. And maybe there's a real kick in the pants: Your electricity goes out and suddenly everyone in the neighborhood's off, too! At some point, even the diehard skeptic has to admit something's going on...

Is it evidence of the Divine working in our midst? I'm not willing to say that precisely, not quite yet. Because, frankly, the trivial nature of many coincidences keeps me from it. Still, it's something to examine. Maybe my reticence comes from having too big an image of the Divine, so the problem's with me. If the Divine, let's say, being eternal and therefore ageless, is still like a cosmic one-year-old, through no fault of its own, then a lot of immature bullshit tinkering with people's heads wouldn't be out of the picture. It's something to consider.

Instead of that, I'm more open to a reexamination of the theory of synchronicity, one of the famous theories C.G. Jung stole from The Police, inspired as he was by their great album. The theory states, basically, there is a discernible connecting principle between apparently unrelated phenomena that happen simultaneously or nearly so in time. Along with this, it can be apart from any cause and effect relationship that we usually posit, being therefore termed "acausal."

For example, let's say there's Horse A in Florida, Horse B in Oregon, and Horse C in Maine. Each horse is sick on Tuesday, well on Wednesday, sick on Thursday, well on Friday, sick on Saturday, and finally put down on Sunday. At first glance there's nothing obvious to our limited sensibilities indicating a connection or any cause and effect relationship (with the distance between Florida, Oregon, and Maine), so it simply seems like a pure coincidence. But looking deeper I think we can make an excellent case for a meaningful synchronicity, because what are the chances of three horses in a single example being called Horse A, Horse B, and Horse C? There's a clear pattern.

With that in mind, imagine how freaked out I was yesterday when I saw the newspaper's headline: "SUMMER BUCKET LIST." The day before (Sunday) I had my post, "I Pour Contempt On All My Pride," involving buckets. Then yesterday (Monday), the same day as the newspaper, I was working on my post, "My Great Memories of Buckets." The timeline went like this: 1) On Sunday I had no knowledge what the Monday paper would say. 2) On Monday I was working on the post, then saw the newspaper, then went to finish it up.

How does stuff like that happen? And what does it mean? I haven't seen anything freakier since the day I was imagining what Johnny Cash's funeral would be like, and the next day I read online that he died. Meaning that my imagining of his funeral was happening literally as he was dying! That's odd, yes, but this bucket thing blows my mind!

Please, help me. If you have a thought on this issue, an opinion, some kind of good counsel, please leave me a comment. If you don't, who knows, maybe I'll start imagining ... imagining ... imagining ... and it'll be you who kicks the bucket.

The Horse Wildfire

His father was the lightning,
His mother was the weeds,
This horse is made of fire,
The fieriest of steeds.
He came across the prairie
In the greatest cloud of smoke,
Fire like this in horses
Is nothing you can stoke.

WILDFIRE!
Keep on blazing!
WILDFIRE -- He's really one hot horse.


He started out a little flame,
But then the years passed by,
And what was only little once
Had now flamed up so high.
And so the prairie felt him
A'charging o'er the plains,
And not a thing could stop him,
Not the wind and not the rains.

WILDFIRE!
Lights the night!
WILDFIRE -- A horse without a match.


The enemy of outlaws,
He watches where they turn,
And then he flares up at them
And whinnies as they burn.
Their camp will be no refuge,
No water's in the well,
There's nothing that can douse him,
He sends them straight to hell.

WILDFIRE!
Whinnying at them!
WILDFIRE -- His flames will save this land.


His coat is a fiery furnace,
His mane's a living hell.
A marshmallow 40 miles away
Would heat and start to swell.
The children at that distance
May go out pale and wan,
But when their mother calls them in,
They look like Al Jolson.

WILDFIRE!
Can't approach him!
WILDFIRE -- He's lighting up the sky!


And so, my friends, we honor him,
This horse without a peer.
We hail him from afar of course
Because we can't go near.
His fiery coat is burning,
There's brimstone on his breath,
To shake his hoof or brush him,
Would mean our certain death.

WILDFIRE!
Keep on smokin'!
WILDFIRE -- He's burning evermore!

The Harder You Applaud

It could've happened to anyone. The horse just dropped dead.

He knew all the tricks and liked to keep the audience happy. But being a horse, he probably didn't know they'd be happy if he just showed up and gave an average performance. No one's expecting a Las Vegas revue out in the sticks.

Looking at the audience, personally I wouldn't try very hard at all. If there was ever a gathering before apparently missing that many chromosomes, I've never seen it. And those were just the ones paying attention. Mom and Dad were over there slapping little Sally for wanting cotton candy. And a few of them had lost their helium balloons within minutes of buying them, it was ridiculous.

I myself would've gone to the bathroom before the horse came on, but I didn't want to miss the clowns scooping up after him. They're always trying misdirection tricks with the audience, but I'm careful to follow the shovel. Keep your eyes on the shovel...

A guy named Toby was the announcer, and he knew how to get the audience revved up, telling us about 10 times, "The harder you applaud, the harder he'll work!" The cowboy took his horse through a series of steps, then jumps, then was racing him around the circle.

We applauded politely for the steps he took, being mostly one foot in front of the other, then crossing his legs, then a cute bow to each of the three sections. I liked the bows and applauded louder for those. Other joined me, with not just clapping but whistles.

Toby came out, his hands over his head, and called to the crowd, "The harder you applaud, the harder he'll work."

Off then he went, with many jumps over gates, getting always higher. We applauded like you might expect for the smaller gates, then louder for the medium-sized ones, then quite a bit louder yet for the higher ones. He jumped with all his might and cleared them, although he hit one of them with his hooves. We applauded even harder to make him feel better.

Toby stepped up and cranked us up some more, "The harder you applaud, the harder he'll work!" The rider seemed to sense something was wrong and acted like he wanted Toby to knock it off, but he didn't catch his drift.

It was time for the circles. The horse went running around the circles, running fast, cantoring, leaping, going ballistic in all the ways that only a horse with nothing but his legs and mad skills can. The applause was deafening, with the horse responding as trained, working harder and harder and ever harder yet.

Finally, it was time for the coup de gras, The Spectacular Deliverance of Beauty, with the horse meant to convey a threatened woman out of the hands of Black Bart, an evil cowboy. She staggers out of the upper room of a saloon set, her hands tied, and jumps to the horse's back, which runs with all his might around the circle. The applause is wild.

Somehow she stays standing. And she's trying to untie her hands while keeping her balance. An assistant runs in with a stick and the woman additionally has to leap over it each time around the ring. The applause is crazy, with the horse running even faster, the woman leaping up, and the stick going ever higher.

Toby steps out of the shadows, and seems to sense a disaster is at hand. But by pure habit, he calls for the audience to give their most rousing ovation. "The harder you applaud, the harder he'll work!" Leading to -- what? -- a sudden heart attack, something! It was like an airshow but with a horse. The horse is going 40 miles an hour when suddenly his legs crumple under him. The audience is aghast.

The woman is thrown into the stands, her fall cushioned by Sally's cotton candy ... and Sally, who turns out to be the only human fatality.

One Horse In A One-Horse Town

How would you like to be the one horse in a one-horse town? You'd be very well known there.

Anyone could ride you to the city limits but not over. Then you'd trot back to the town square for other service.

The blacksmith makes new shoes for you. Kids give you a comforting hosing down. Ladies sew cute skirts for your fetlocks. Men speak of your good qualities over checkers.

But there's a sad ending...

Finally, a greedy bartender gets the idea to sell you to the beer company, who leads you into a big truck late at night, and takes you to a city where you're only one horse among many.

Meanwhile, back in the town, they assume you simply ran away, for whatever reason, vote on a bond issue, and go buy a new horse.

Thanks to the bartender and the beer company, this is a horse you one day will meet.

Last Of The Grange Tweets

Dark, dense brooding ... then a field of light ... and back into the thicket. A sacred sword pointed is powerful, humbling the horses.

A day of adjusting, conjuring, bringing all energies to a head. My motivations being pure, I shall prevail. Tonight the zipper comes down!

Tonight the orgies will end and the true morality will prevail. Long live the town! Long live the country! I'm steaming mad at dirt.

I will boldly proclaim the work in which I am engaged. The key to everything is right here ... But first I have some normal errands to run.

Someone said I look like Hugh Hefner. Thanks for noticing. Sorry about the blue material, the sex, in my blog today.

Horse lovers, I'm sorry: "Blood was in a wild spray, horses were falling dead in a terrible arc all around the perimeter of the orgy field."

People tell me it's a natural drive, primal, something necessary for the perpetuation of the species, etc., but I simply don't believe them.

Am I going to say a mumbling word. I say I'm not.

Put Me Amongst The Girls

I have great news to report: THE GRANGE SISTERHOOD HAS BEEN TOPPLED. And I toppled a couple of farmers' daughters too.

Think back to yesterday, when I engaged in some fierce sacred sword play, preparation for what I needed to accomplish. I was channeling single-minded energy with such intensity I was able to burn my initials in the lawn. The power of thought is so strong, quite frankly I won't leave home without it.

I picked one narrow, short sword to take to the grange dance. Then when the time came I drove down the hill and turned south. About as soon as I did, they were taking potshots at me. One of the men in trees shot out my back passenger window. But I kept on, my thoughts completely on point. I saw one of them up ahead raising his gun, so I moved his gun up with a motion of my sword just as he was shooting. Then glancing off to the left, across the road I saw another guy fall dead from his tree.

They seemed surprised to see me pull into the grange compound. But I parked and walked on toward a central point. No one was going to shoot me now. They wanted to see how it played out, perhaps toy with me. But if there's any toying to be done, all together now, put me amongst the girls...

Everything was mostly in motion. I could hear Johnny Hotshot's band inside the grange. Whatever preparations in the barn there were, they'd been done and folks were coming out. Back to my right, behind me, by the cars, were some of the callow boys of town, thinking they'd come out for some quick action. But if there's any action to be had, all together now, put me amongst the girls...

Appearing like a vision of both loveliness and hideousness, out came the orgy participants and the farmers' daughters with the young grange men playing their part as suitors. If you didn't know better you'd think they were deep in heat. The grabbing, groping, soon to become a group grope. The farmers' daughters looking bored, the young men very much into it, the matrons chests heaving, busting at the seams, the men in full arousal. But if there's any arousing to be be done, all together now, put me amongst the girls...

They were arrayed in the grove, the farmer's daughters calling for the callow boys to come over. The orgies were getting down to business. I stood my ground, taking in the full scene. I felt for my short sword in my pocket. It felt hot, blazing. Then from the barn came Lemuel with the horses in proud procession. They were heading over by the fence, setting up to destroy the boys from town. But if there's any destroying to be done, all together now, put me amongst the girls...

Lemuel saw me -- they must not have told him I was there -- and he seemed surprised. There was a strange look on his face. Not exactly fear. He moved in to quiet the horses and seemed to be whispering something to the lead horse, Honest Maude III. Everything had come to a head!

The boys from town were beginning to move that way. But I pulled my sword and pushed them back. They fell backwards and were knocked unconscious. The orgy clumps were seething and sizzling like a devil that knows perdition's at hand. They doubled down, getting it on even more intensely. I don't know what the farmers' daughters were thinking, but they were no longer acting. This was their life and they needed to play the part with fervor. But if there's any playing to be done, all together now, put me amongst the girls...

Into the midst of that seething, writhing mess I strode -- like John Brown -- purposely putting myself where the horses would have the best shot at me. Hallelujah! The Moment I Was Born For! Just then Lemuel ran for the trees and shot me a look of approval. I glanced down at the horses' hooves. They had extra sharp horseshoes, cleated in a major way, kind of like the chariot wheels in Ben Hur, but of course not as long.

I raised my sword to the heavens and felt such a surge of righteous power go through me, the lights of the grange compound flickered and Johnny Hotshot's sound system went out. We heard nothing now but the stillness of a late summer night and the moans of the orgies, now much heated up. The horses turned toward me, looking over their shoulder to get their aim right. But if there's any aiming to be done, O teacher, put me amongst the girls...

I reached down -- no man can do this and survive! -- and unsnapped my pants, unzipped myself, took off my pants, including my undies, and stood there as proud as I've ever been in my life. The sword lay limp on the ground. But not to worry, the true sword was very much present and accounted for. At this sight, the horses went into a mighty frenzy. I should've been kicked to death well before now. Hallelujah! I spun there in place for all the grange to see. Maybe in some parallel universe I'm still spinning!

The orgy hushed. They were ready to say Sayonara to me. Ha ha! The horses, in a mighty frenzy, were now so enraged, not knowing what to do. But what they did is they began kicking each other wildly. And with those sharp Ben Hur cleats finding their mark, being embedded in the heads of one another, it was a sickening scene. Blood was in a wild spray, horses were falling dead in a terrible arc all around the perimeter of the orgy field.

I stood my ground, with naked orgy participants running in fear for the sidelines. Then I spun again while thrusting my hips, and I think I was unconsciously shrieking several of the most powerful incantations of Peruvians rituals, as my mind was not understanding but my spirit gave the utterance. When I aimed at the barn -- thrust -- it burst into flames. When I aimed at Lemuel's house -- thrust -- I saw the lights flicker inside and heard bloodcurdling screams from within. When I aimed at the horses -- I quickly pulled back -- as the last survivor sat back on his haunches and put up his front feet, just like in the westerns.

I stood there like that then as all things except the burning barn became very quiet, perfectly still. It was then that two of the farmers' daughters came and straightened out some of the blankets. I really hate to spell out precisely what happened next, except to say I'm still smiling this morning. And if there's any smiling to be done, all together now, put me amongst the girls...

After what might be called a personal climax of sorts, I learned that Lemaperu and Peru's spirits were merged with the horses. It was their Peruvian deviltry that had died. The others, being very afraid, went along with them out of fear. Even Lemuel had had enough, and what he was whispering to the horse was being whispered to the Peruvians, "Your day has come!"

There might still be some mopping up, but for all intents and purposes, the Grange Sisterhood has been destroyed!

I Was Trained To Be A Wallflower

I know it sounds like something out of the "True Confessions" magazine. But this has been the story of my life, and I never knew why. Now I know what happened: I was trained to be a wallflower!

And it goes way back. But let me hasten to add, Grandma and Grandpa always had my best interests at heart. They were looking out for my very survival. And now, in addition to gratitude, I'm also flattered by what they were saying about me in the process. Because they really had to work to keep me alive, they knew I was a hunk, had virility, and was a lady killer.

But that's exactly what you can't be in our area. Being a lady killer is exactly what will get a young man killed in our neighborhood!

We were what you would call grange people. Our place being on the outskirts of town, we were as much country folk as town folk. We could swing both ways ... and did. But if you do, you're oftentimes hated by both sides. So we kept some town connections -- shopping, supplies, amusements -- but our main socializing was in the country, the grange. The town stuff wasn't smiled upon.

But so far so good. This is what I remember from the file (now in grange hands). I remember it from my actual experience not as much. I was mostly off having a good time with the other kids, including, now that I look back on it, a generation of farmers' daughters who still hadn't blossomed to the point that the leaders could use them as weapons. We were innocent kids ... but it wasn't to stay that way!

A little bit of hair puffs out here, some extra bulging there, and the girls get bulbous in places, spilling out over their midsection so badly they have to wear a support garment just to keep everything up! It can lead to things best left unspoken ... none good. Like death!

Now I realize, because I was an outskirts kid, the nucleus of the grange people were determined to put me to the same test as young men from the town. I would be tested and I would fail. I would've been kicked to death when I was 13, 14, 15, 16, etc., as sure as anything ... except ... God bless them ... they kept me alive ... my blessed grandparents raised me and trained me to be a wallflower.

Of course I had the same hormones as every other kid, but they were always channeling me away from having high expectations about relationships. I'd be wanting to go out on a date and they'd get me a new frog or ant farm, anything to replace my urges. It went on like that, to the point that we did very little socializing at all. Must dress drably, must avoid perfumes and fragrances, must line the bed with cold water bags. The binding of hands, wearing blinders at the beach, etc. And anytime there was a possible activity with mixed company -- like someone invited me out -- it was time instead to go clean out the crawdad tub. Got to get ready for fishing in the morning! Even though no one said anything about fishing earlier on.

And that's the reason -- that has to be it -- why Grandma and Grandpa dropped out of the grange all together, much to their discredit with that society. To save my life.

As for the grange, and some of the circumstances behind all this, according to the file, everything seemed normal till the leader of the grange was killed by a jealous husband, then the leader's wife took over on a sympathy vote. From then on, women took on a more important role in the organization, as the aggrieved wife appointed them. Whether from revenge for that one man's adultery, or some other psychological quirk, the new leader and those under her took a hard-line stance against sex and men in general, leading to all these terrible tests.

That was when the mysterious deaths of young men and boys started up. They had only one horse for the job in those days, "Honest Maude," who must've been everything her name implies. And from then on it was just a matter of inbreeding and skewed horse training to bring us what we have today, Lemuel's proud team of assassin horses.

It was around 1962 when my family dropped out. And the same year I was baptized. Because they must have known I would try something -- reach for my zipper -- and perhaps be killed. So better to be safe than sorry.

We had problems over the years, which I should leave out. The relations between town and country hardened. The radicals' scheme was to turn the town into country and the country into town, or to adopt its better aspects, something like that. And they influenced town women over the years, infiltrating the Mode-a-Day dress shop, making radicals of them, etc.

The women made it into a totalitarian organization, with extensive black lists, poisoning of animals, etc. It was about 1963 that our shed was burned down and my dog died. So Grandma and Grandpa no doubt took all that as a warning.

A whole generation has passed since then. So why are they still doing all this stuff? The killing of young men by horses. The radical strain is still there. And there aren't enough caring, loving parents or grandparents thinking ahead and making their sons wallflowers to save their lives.

Lemuel's Queen and All About Mules

Lemuel and his wife, Peru, were very gracious as I arrived and sat with them.

I should probably note that Peru was enormous. A full head taller than Lemuel. And literally Peruvian. Lemuel met her in the circus as someone who could charm any animal. She's an Amazon. A jungle charmer. Obviously the power behind Lemuel.

Her name Peru is a nickname she got in the circus. Her actual name is something not meant to be pronounced except on ceremonial occasions or in mystical pursuits among her people. She definitely was not among the matrons at the dances, but off doing who knows what. In private being their Queen.

We sat in the parlor and Lemuel and I passed the time with small talk about the weather, how the week was going, and, of course, horses. I didn't really have much to say about horses, not knowing much about hippology, except I commented on how beautiful horses are -- a fact no one can argue with -- and how they're obviously more evolved than the mule.

Peru was looking at me with a piercing gaze. Through the evening I noticed, and it wasn't subtle, that Lemuel jumped to her every command. She was first in all things. Such a powerful bearing! Queenly.

But back to the mules. This is interesting. Lemuel agreed with my last point about horses being beautiful, then went into a scientific explanation of how we get mules, something about the horse having a multiplicity of genes, as do we, and they're configured and triggered in various ways. According to him, horse breeders are an insulated priesthood, no one knows where, working with and breeding the first, original line horses, tinkering with very refined acupuncture equipment and DNA. They're very esoteric and he said they burn a lot of incense.

Peru was staring straight ahead, like she was in a trance.

Lemuel, with all his expertise, which I envied, mentioned the horse's stubborn gene, the brute gene, the asexual gene, and the like. I didn't say much in reply, just nodded and uttered assent. I know better than to argue with anyone who buys horse feed by the barrel! There was one moment, though, when I was a little embarrassed, when he said "asexual." At that Peru's gaze dropped just below my belt.

I have this thing that goes on in my head. I call it paranoia. So it seemed like I shouldn't say anything or move. I certainly wasn't going to move my hands to cover myself down there at that point. Just let her stare and pretend I didn't notice.

I started to sweat, and I was hoping Lemaperu would hurry up and make her appearance. Finally, I broke the ice and asked whether I was "given to understand" that they had children, pointing to several tapestry icons on the mantle. Lemuel said they had a daughter, Lemaperu, who would be in shortly.

So we started in again with the topic of horses and mules -- all very interesting stuff -- but no sooner had we done so that Peru suddenly broke our train of thought. She clapped her hands, one loud, imperious, insistent clap. Lemuel rose to his feet, walked ceremoniously to her side, bowed, took her hand, and escorted her out of the room. With his free hand he waved for me to follow. Then he motioned, Back, back, back .... in other words, keep a respectful distance.

What I saw next was hard to believe. They had a double sized room with rich carpets and tapestry, and near the wall a platform, and on the platform two thrones and one regular easy chair off to the side, not on the platform. Lemuel led Peru to the bigger throne. Then he sat in the easy chair off to one side and motioned me toward a chair across the room.

All at once he stood, so I stood too, but Peru remained sitting. With that, a woman practically as big and important entered the room, not looking around, but advancing toward the other throne. She bowed her head gracefully at Peru, her mother, and was seated. Then Lemuel sat as well and I followed his lead.

Peru said in an official voice, "Our daughter, Lemaperu!" I nodded and said, "Glad to meet you." She nodded and that was it.

When no one said anything -- I was a little scared -- I waited for a little bit, then cleared my throat, and asked Lemuel to explain about the asexuality of mules. The women didn't seem to mind the natural vulgarity of discussing animal reproduction. And it was refreshing for me, who knew that animals "did it," of course, but just didn't know there were so many interesting details.

He went into a long explanation about equine reproduction, that it's a lot like the way we mate. The basic plot was that they go into heat and that the two genders come together in such a way that they end up with a colt. But a mule, he said, being the product of two different strains of the ancient hippoerectus, some kind of tiny prehistoric horse, is denied the heat function necessary for it to mate and reproduce. So the mule exists by itself and dies alone after its servitude.

Anyway, grange servants soon showed up with take-out from the Olive Garden and escorted Lemuel and myself to a different room. They were obviously going to serve the Queen first and her daughter. Lemuel and I were several rooms away and when it was time for us to eat, enjoyed the leftovers.

There didn't seem to be anything interesting to talk about, so I just asked him a few more perfunctory questions about mules, horses, mules at the Grand Canyon, and trivia, like how many legs does a mule have, etc.

And that was all I saw of the women for the evening. No pitching of woo. At the end I shared a nice handshake with my brother male and went home. All in all it was a great, great time!