Thoughts On The Dead

Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To

Creatures Great And Small

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Thoughts on the Dead is officially anti-horse, whatever that might mean. I don’t think they’re holding any sort of plebiscite. Referenda are not forthcoming.

I correct myself: I don’t mind the actual beasts any more than, say, opossums or elk or Belgians. Let a horse be a horse. Stand in a field. Occasionally, run over there. Then stop. Stand some more. Have giant horse-dongs. Good for them.

But they must–as integrity demands–be included in TotD’s One Rule About Animals: Don’t bother them. Precisely one animal has benefitted in any way, shape, or form from human contact, and that animal was basically created through a multi-generational genetic experiment that no one realized they were doing at the time.

(Seriously: the creation of the dog is like an unbelievably slow Frankenstein. “Igor, Igor! I have made a dog! I have very, very gradually and mostly accidentally made a dog. I did it some time in the past few thousand years. Maybe. I don’t know: we haven’t invented a calendar yet, but we can get to that now that we have dogs.”)

And, now, having brought the dumb slobbery hounds and terriers and mutts into existence, we owe them kindness and a warm place to sleep and a fresh leg to hump because, let’s not forget, we made them this stupid. Wolves are clever as fuck: the mental drop-off between one and, say, a pug is like the drop-off between Two from the Vault and Three from the Vault.

The other species, the ones that were here before us and will be here after we’re gone, have no credits in their “dealing with humans” account, just debits. Many animals have made the poor decision to be delicious. (Although it should be said that many animals might be tasty, but are too mean and wily to ever be domesticable. Rhino might taste like Emma Stone’s deep-fried asshole, but you just can’t get them to stay in the field. Cows, in addition to tasting good, also do what they’re told; this has proved a poor choice for the cow.)

Here in Fillmore South, there are many places to eat alligator. I suppose this is a “do unto others before they do to you” thing. TotD has never eaten alligator, since it supposedly tastes just like chicken. I’ll just stick with the chicken, then. If two things taste the same, and one’s a bird and the other’s a prehistoric monster: I’ll eat the bird.

In many parts of the world, they eat all sorts of bullshit. (That sentence, by the way, was the opener to my PhD dissertation in Anthropology.) Liberal websites–Slate and Salon in particular–keep trying to guilt me into thinking bugs are acceptable food. They are carbon-neutral, and good for the planet. This is true, but in no way even close to the reason people eat bugs, which is because they can’t fucking afford meat.

When we start eating the bugs sounds like a fine time to go vegan.

Horses are inedible to humans. (Yes, I know the French eat them. I stand by my statement.) They are–or were–useful, though. They pull stuff. Or carry stuff. They listen to the dreams and fears of rich white girls. Small, angry men ride them in circles for large, angry men to wager on. They’re a useful measure for how hungry you are, or how hung you are.

(I was going to mock horses for being measured in hands, but then I realized: should we measure them in feet? Or did I just blow your mind?)

Free the horse, man. It’s time for revolution in the stables, brothers and sisters! Free ’em now, let ’em go, set ’em loose to wander and be free and one with nature. Sure, they’d starve to death in days. Well, the ones that didn’t get hit by cars. Or panic and break their legs and have to be shot in front of elementary schools.  Or break their giant horse-dongs trying to love up on statues.

Do not free the horses, man.

1 Comment

  1. I wonder what the DSM 5 terminology for “unreasonable castigator of horses” might be.

    Dude, (I never call anyone that) horses are “cool as fuck” and it’s OK to ride them. My Mom worked at the SFPD stables when she was a kid, down by Fleischhacker and the Zoo. Yea, she probably confided a few secrets and perhaps even imagined what the heck that Catherine The Great myth was all about…

    Ask Mssr. Lesh the meaning of his Christian name, next time you see him. I’ll “front myself out here,” we share that name.

    Personally, I’m a bit afraid of the beasts.They know it, too. If you’ve ever had one bite down on that big nerve trunk/musculature between your neck and shoulder so hard that your knees buckled and you soiled yourself, you know what I mean.

    They’re still: “Cool As Fuck” though.

    I’ll still ride one, anyway. At least you don’t have to buy them dinner and a corsage before hand. I’m sure the DSM 5 has something to say about that as well.

    Most women would find it rude if their male partner broke into a refrain of “Mexicali Blues” during nap time. I’m just spit-balling now… And making sure I still have my Shrink on speed dial.

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