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Howard this was
worth waiting for. Everyone, Rhonda, Charles, Ray, et.al, I am howling here and
all this is going in my forthcoming book. Keep em coming folks, er no pun
intended.
I am going to
have to go back and read these all later on tonight when Herb and I have our
nightly rendezvous. If it is funny now, I might die of laughter at the midnight
hour.
amber
I've noticed that the only people talking about this subject are
female. (Well, Jim Holland did write something, but he always writes
something). This does not surprise me in the least. Well, far be
it from me to be shy about the subject, but let's just say being here on
ridecamp, surrounded by women who talk about cleaning a gelding's privates as
casually as they would discuss doing laundry, I figured I'd better check it
out. Can't really be that bad.
So, I went to the store and bought
some Excalibur, quite an appropriate name for the job at hand, I must
say. Anyhow, I made sure none of my neighbors were anywhere around,
since I'm the only horse person on the street who would do this out in the
open and I think the word would spread that Howard's finally lost it
totally with his horses. Way too familiar, if you know what I
mean.
I proceed with the operation, making sure to follow the
instructions on the bottle, and even forgoing the rubber gloves, as I don't
have any and have gone too far with this job to stop and take the time to run
to the store for them. I know that if I don't go thru with it right now
I'll just not be able to do it ever. I'm purty sure I have that disease
known to a lot of American males called homophobia, and though, technically my
horse isn't of that persuasion, I have seen him do some strange things
with other geldings that might cause one to think otherwise.
So I stick a water hose down there, get it nice & wet, and then
slop on the green Excalibur, which seems to be a combination of Jell-O and
goppy jelly that's been in the fridge too long. Now comes the hard part,
I try not to look at what I'm doing so maybe it won't seem as surreal as it
does. I, also, glance around to make sure nobody has snuck up on me with
a video camera. The coast is clear so I continue.
Now I'm there, my hand is in the (what do you call this darn thing
anyhow? sac? pit? smelly, dank, flexible cave?) and man, it is so messy.
Cheesy stuff, I actually looked up the word for it and it's called
smegma. Another appropriate name. What creates this mess?
What in the world am I doing in here with my hand surrounded by it? Can
I hire someone to do this for me? If my gelding gets excited, I know I'm
just gonna lose it entirely. Don't you dare come out of that cave
whatever you do. STAY IN THERE! I have a knife!
Well, let's
just say it's an awful job and I'm trying to come up with the right wording so
I can advertise for this position in the local newspaper. And if a guy
calls up for the job, I'm just going to tell him the position's already been
taken, cause the only thing worse than doing it yourself is to watch another
male do it for you. No matter, whomever answers the add, I'm not
watching any of it. And, please, don't try to shake my hand when your
finished. Your money is over there on the table, just grab it and
go. Go, and, no, I don't want to discuss how it all went while you were
working. For me, not to talk about it is why I'm paying you to do
it. You can wash your hands when you get home.
I want to bond
with my horse, but this is asking a bit too much.
cya,
Howard
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