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What, dost thou think me a savage?
12 years ago
In blatant violation of UCMJ, I didn't shave over the past weekend, and the result was that by the time Sunday rolled around, I looked like a better-looking cross between Abdul Rasul Sayyaf and Osama with somewhat more defined arms and abs. To be precise, I did shave, just not my face. If my carpets were to match my drapes, horizontally recreating with the ladies would be a rather hairy affair.
I went over to a friend's ranch to ride some horses, and for some time, it was sort of fun, although I'm generally not a fan of large, smelly animals. As we galloped up and down the mountains of upstate NY like Uzbek warriors of old, he mentioned to me that his studs have been reacting very badly every time someone comes to use snips on his rose garden, or trim his hedges with shears.
Who knows what the Hell is up with that.
We retired for lunch around midday, and since my buddy's a Kraut, we had a few nice big bratwurts. He wanted to tell me that these in particular had beef and pork, but to avoid having to apologize to both Allah and Krishna, I stuck my fingers in my ears and sang loudly until he shut up.
Anyway, it was all going well until I began to eat my brat. I moved my beard out of the way to do so, and when I took my knife to the big, thick, dark sausage, my horsy reared up and tried to run away. When it neighed in horror like that and its eyes grew as wide as plates, it looked... strangely familiar for some reason, though I don't know why. Deja vu, maybe.
So I continued to eat my sausage while my steed carried on. I eventually grew irritated with him and moved to give him a little alteration, when I realized that someone had beaten me to the punch. I was caught by my friend in the odd position of being beneath a horse with a knife in my hand, but I pretended to shave the lad and just looked at my buddy, and said, "What, dost thou think me a savage?"
After all, what kind of an insane sociopath would castrate a poor, innocent horsy?
I went over to a friend's ranch to ride some horses, and for some time, it was sort of fun, although I'm generally not a fan of large, smelly animals. As we galloped up and down the mountains of upstate NY like Uzbek warriors of old, he mentioned to me that his studs have been reacting very badly every time someone comes to use snips on his rose garden, or trim his hedges with shears.
Who knows what the Hell is up with that.
We retired for lunch around midday, and since my buddy's a Kraut, we had a few nice big bratwurts. He wanted to tell me that these in particular had beef and pork, but to avoid having to apologize to both Allah and Krishna, I stuck my fingers in my ears and sang loudly until he shut up.
Anyway, it was all going well until I began to eat my brat. I moved my beard out of the way to do so, and when I took my knife to the big, thick, dark sausage, my horsy reared up and tried to run away. When it neighed in horror like that and its eyes grew as wide as plates, it looked... strangely familiar for some reason, though I don't know why. Deja vu, maybe.
So I continued to eat my sausage while my steed carried on. I eventually grew irritated with him and moved to give him a little alteration, when I realized that someone had beaten me to the punch. I was caught by my friend in the odd position of being beneath a horse with a knife in my hand, but I pretended to shave the lad and just looked at my buddy, and said, "What, dost thou think me a savage?"
After all, what kind of an insane sociopath would castrate a poor, innocent horsy?
