The inciting incident responsible for this post is an article I stumbled on titled “Horse herpes outbreak forces rodeo queens to ride stick ponies.” At some rarefied moments in my internet life, some things just write themselves.
“In a related story, the bovine chlamydia spread has not affected local bull-riding competitions, with only three ranch-hands and one rodeo clown seeking treatment.”
This article raises a few questions in my mind that are worth exploring.
- Which smarmy sailor horse started this heinous outbreak? Snake Hips, the New Jersey racehorse known for his proclivities on and off the race-track?
- Considering how close most riders are with their equine pals, are any of the “rodeo queens” or people affiliated with them now stand-offish after a sexually charged date?
- Were the stick ponies tested for HIV/Genital Warts/Gonorrhea/etc? Could this be a case of out of the frying-pan and into the fire-pee?
These are very relevant and important questions which I feel the article does not address, let alone answer completely. Instead, the article focuses on the contestants and their eerily dead-eyed judges.
What really shined were the true traits of a queen: poise and personality amid trying times.
“It will give you experience for if you happen to have a problem like this later in life,” Steed said with a smile. “You already have the experience of riding a stick horse!”
…and what valuable experience that is.
“Well, this resume looks great! Your references all check out glowingly and you have experience in our field of work.”
Ben grins and nods lightly, not wishing to spoil the interview by talking.
“I just have one last question for you, and please answer honestly: how much time have you logged riding a stick horse?”
As Ben trudges back to his truck, he wonders why he never got the chance to have his horse catch equine herpes, thus padding his future and his life lessons learned. He then wonders why he never got the damn horse in the first place, contemplating films like Hidalgo and Seabiscuit. Blue eyes… not to mention I’m not a redheaded, oversized jockey living in the Great Depression. CURSE YOU, CRUEL FATE!