Saturday, August 27, 2011

The Horse Story

It’s no secret that I hate horses. I know I’ve talked about this before and I went into a weird little tangent about pre-pubescent orgasms and it got a little weird. Okay, it got a lot weird. You can read that article here.

This is the story of I came to hate horses with an extreme passion.
I was in 6th grade English class, and we were about to do the 15th revision of our partner’s paper. My partner was Margo (name changed for obvious reasons). Margo was a nice girl. She was fairly popular. But she was also THAT GIRL (everyone has one) that loved horses*. She LOVED them. Horse folders, horse posters in her locker, and a very long 6th grade paper all about horses.
I had to check her paper as an English assignment. The biggest assignment of the year in fact. So important, that our teacher forced us to read each other’s meticulously and fix any missed commas or periods.
Honestly, it could have happened to anyone, and I’m sure I would have hated everyone’s paper just as much as I hated Margo’s. Unfortunately for horses and horse supporters, I got Margo. After reading the paper for the five bazillionth time, I had had enough. I took my bright red colored pencil and scrawled across the top: “You, Margo Fentzwiger, have made me HATE horses. Thanks to you, there is another person in this world who supports glue factories and the shooting of horses with broken legs.”
As soon as I wrote it, I felt a lot better. My insides were raging a war against my body and they finally found release in writing. This is the first time I found out how liberating having a voice was. It was also the first time I felt almost immediately guilty for voicing my opinion. I quickly looked for my eraser and found none. Then I realized that red colored pencils don’t erase easily. Not good. Before I knew it, Mrs. Wilson called out that it was time for us to pass back the papers. REALLY NOT GOOD.
As I handed back Margo’s paper, I felt my guilt and anguish bubble up in my mouth, and when I said “Sorry about this!” it sounded exactly like a “Sorry I’m not sorry, horses suck” tone. She read my two sentences, looked at me with hurt in her eyes and started bawling.
Overcome with criminality and wrongdoing, I too begin to cry. We both got sent to the nurse, because Mrs. Wilson didn’t deal well with the pressure of emotion.
Since the incident, I have hated horses. As bad as I felt, I wrote a goddamn pledge and I’m nothing if not a man of my word. I have grown up slightly and have come up with better reasons to hate horses other than “that annoying girl’s paper was bad and I had to read it too much.” I now have: All they’re good for is pooping in parades, giving rides to rednecks, and making glue (kept that one!).
*Whenever I make sweeping generalizations such as, “everyone has a girl in their class who loved horses”, I always get a bunch of assholes coming up to me and saying “I graduated with 3 people in my class, and no one had horse folders”. You know what that means asshole? YOU were the girl who loved horses. Deny it? Tell me that you haven’t, just once, looked at a horse and thought the word “majestic”. Yea, that’s right. YOU were the girl who loved horses.

Wednesday, August 10, 2011

Short'uns disease

There’s a little running joke that my parents’ told me as a kid known as “short-man’s disease”. Whenever I make this remark to anyone else, I seem to get a lot of blank stares, so for those of you who don’t know, keep up, because once you know about it, you see it everywhere.
Short man’s disease refers to the correlation between a man’s height and his muscularity. The shorter the man, the bulkier he becomes.
This is a psychological (and generic) term known as overcompensation, and is often paired with terrible tempers (brought on by testosterone overdose due to steroids [Allegedly!]) and lots of Ed Hardy clothing). Or I guess any clothing that sparkles a lot, which I think, is supposed to distract you from their height.
Don’t get me wrong, there are plenty of hotheaded bulky tall guys out there too, but in my experience, 4 times out of 5, the bulkheads will have a height lower than that of the national average. If you need proof, let’s turn our attention to America’s favorite show “Jersey Shore”. There’s no debate that Ronnie is the bulkiest of the men. My entire body will fit into his bicep. He is 5’7’’ and is the shortest of the men. He also goes on constant [alleged] ‘roid rages. So much so that he is easily my least favorite person on Jersey Shore.
I wonder how buff Napoleon really was… or if that’s why he wanted to wear so many sparkly medals?
Anyway, I decided to write this little article after my run today. I was just doing some cool down stretches and walking back to my house when a young couple walked by. They were the exact same height and the male had hair so gelled that I’m sure it would have sounded metal had I knocked on it. He was also wearing a tie-dye gray and blue t-shirt adorned with many fake tattoo designs by Ed Hardy himself. I stayed on the right-hand of the sidewalk and nodded as I walked by (as I often do as a friendly gesture). BulkHardy then purposefully steps into my path and slams my shoulder, for nonverbally saying “hello” to his girlfriend and him. Yeah, that’s healthy.