Santa Anita Park might as well be a glue factory. Something like 40 of us have died there in the last two years. And now me and Truest Reward. In a way, death is our truest reward, or at least I thought it’d be. Am I in purgatory? There’s plenty of grass, but no apples or peanut butter or ass (I’m assuming I’ll get my balls back once I’m transported to heaven).
You guys ever read Animal Farm? I feel like Boxer. You work hard your entire life and they run into the ground until you die. And somewhere in between, they cut your fucking balls off. They did it to me on my birthday. What kind of sick fucking joke is that? Naming me Golden Birthday and then cutting my damn balls off on my birthday? I thought I was going to get a bucket full of apples, but they put the bucket under the wrong end, and then out comes the knife. I still have nightmares about it.
And now PETA is trying to stop “all horse racing.” I’ve always hated PETA. They’re nothing but a bunch of publicity whores and they’re never going to stop “all horse racing.” Never. But it would be nice if they tried to do something attainable like shutting down Santa Anita Park, or at least getting someone to repair the track.
I was a thoroughbred, the horse equivalent of an astronaut or a ballerina. And like astronauts and ballerinas, I understood that if I ever broke my leg, they were putting me down. But you don’t load astronauts into a space shuttle you know has warped O-Rings, just like you don’t allow ballerinas to walk around without muzzles.
I’m not some idealist with my ass in the air, I’ve always known the deal. I’m a horse, and I run in circles so people can scream at me. That’s just the way it is. But if 40 ballerinas died at the same dance hall, wouldn’t you check the stage to make sure it was safe for their hooves?
Please, for the sake of my buddies down there, get someone to fix the damn track. And give me my balls back.
Golden “Red” Birthday
Dear Golden Birthday,
You racehorses don’t know how good you have it. Back in my day, there was a little something called the Coliseum, where Romans fed Christians to lions for sport. At least you guys have a 50/50 chance of surviving a horse race. The odds against a Christian armed with nothing but a stick walking away from a fight with a hungry lion were, like, 40/60 at best. If the Christians were malnourished enough, sometimes the lions wouldn’t even bother killing them, but that was rare.
And there are worse things than a glue factory, let me tell you. At least your bones get turned into something useful that can reattach the handle on a coffee mug or become a part of some second grader’s macaroni necklace that they’ll give to their mom for Christmas. Dead Christians were tied to wagons and dragged through town until they were so rotten that even a hungry lion wouldn’t eat them. And I don’t like to martyr brag, but do you know what it’s like to walk around all day with a crown of thorns on your head and a big wooden cross on your back? It’s pretty bad, but not as bad as being nailed to that cross so you can slowly bleed out while people throw rocks at you.
Look, I get that your life wasn’t easy. You had to run around in circles while a Keebler Elf whipped you in the ass with a cat-o-nine-tails. That’s what happens, right? I’ve never actually seen a horse race. Do they drop the winners live into molten gold to make a life-sized commemorative statue? Because that’s what I’d do.
The thing is, if you had read the Bible, you’d know that animals are nothing more than soulless objects put on earth to serve the whims of their human masters. You pull their carts and provide transportation, but if you tip over and break a leg, you’re pretty replaceable. That apple-less void you thought was purgatory? That’s animal heaven. That’s as good as it gets for you guys. All animals suffer the same fate, from rabid the dog that attacks an innocent mail carrier to the most loyal golden retriever who brought his master the newspaper every day of his life. It’s not so bad though, is it? At least you have consciousness now. Back when you were alive, breaking your body so some rich white assholes could make a few dollars, you weren’t intelligent or self-aware enough to write a coherent letter to the deity that created your miserable existence, were you? You’re welcome.
As for your request to end horse racing on Earth, I wouldn’t worry too much. The SJWs are on it. They will have successfully put an end to everything fun by the year 2022.
Dear Golden Birthday,
It’s true that Animal Heaven isn’t such a fun place, which is why I’m working on a deal to bring you guys down here to Hell. I know that might not sound too good, but hear me out. Not only will you get your bodies restored to peak condition (balls and everything), you’ll have human-like intelligence and awareness (it’ll be a little less than what you’re currently experiencing in Animal Heaven, but it’ll be enough), plus all the apples and peanut butter you can eat. All that I’ll ask in return is that you participate in some of my torments of evil humans. Example: currently, I’ve been forced to use robotic cobras when cramming evil rectums, but I’d much rather use real ones. In the case of horses, it’ll be a lot of drawing and quartering, trampling and kicking, along with what I like to call “Catherine the Great scenarios” where a person gets crushed while trying to fuck you guys. There might also be something involving a centaur motif. I’m getting excited just thinking about it. So yeah—tell all your friends. Satan is trying to bring all animals down to Hell as a part of a massive new torture program. And, in case it’s not obvious, a good number of your “clients” will be assholes involved in horse abuse. You know the guy who shoved the carrot up Mr. Ed’s ass to make his mouth move? He’s down here. I say it’s time to give him a taste of his own medicine.
Have an uncomfortable question? Need some advice about your deviant behavior? If so, then it’s time to pray. Email your question to email@example.com, and it shall be answered in a Divine Advice column by Jesus and Satan.