I’m A Racehorse Who’s Sick Of This Shit
What the hell is wrong with you people?
“Holy fuck!” is all I can think on the day of a race. Here we go again. A hairless monkey is going to climb onto my back and whip the crap out of me. Frankly, I’m sick of it.
When the chattering primates are drinking in the stands, having a good time with their friends, you know what’s happening to me? I’m harnessed with leather straps, and then a metal bit is shoved into my mouth. You know how uncomfortable that is? Try it sometime, with a tiny sadist yanking you around by the gums.
That’s only the beginning, because then I have a saddle cinched so tightly I can hardly breathe. I’m shoved into a metal starting gate, and some maniac shoots a gun, which is terrifying. I try to run fast, but it’s never enough for the psychopath on top of me, who kicks my ribs so I’ll beat the other frightened horses to an arbitrary line on a track that goes nowhere. You have to admit, it’s fucking insane.
I’m not claiming to be the fastest horse in the stable. I’ve won a few races, but most of the time, I don’t. Sometimes I suck, you know, if I’m having a bad day. Happens to everyone. Doesn’t mean I’m ready for the glue factory. I’m still earning a few bucks, but no one expects me to win the Kentucky Derby.
