Father’s Day Disaster
For the past seven or eight years, Papa and I have made a Father’s Day tradition of taking my pony, General Armbruster, down to the park. It’s a labor-intensive affair — it takes quite a bit of work to get the General into his lorica segmentata — but it’s always worth it when he trots proudly from the trailer. Then we’ll usually read him some Ezra Pound until he gets semi-erect and charge kids $5 apiece to touch his cock.
But Papa went into a rage today because General Armbruster wouldn’t stop eating dog shit. Personally, I didn’t think it was any worse than the time he ate that Duraflame log and all those DVDs (that pony consumed nearly four pounds of pornography that day!), but Papa cannot abide coprophagy. We could not keep that pony away from the dog shit. Every time Papa found General Armbruster working on a fresh pile, he would hit him between the eyes, with a snow shovel, as hard as he could. This upset the kids who were just there to touch his cock, and the day ended with Papa muttering, alone, in the horse trailer.
Maybe we’ll just go to Trail Dust Steak House next year.