Monday, April 8, 2013

Miss Manners

I've never been accused of being the most charming individual, and being "politically correct" is about as easy for me as writing my name in fresh snow with my own bodily fluids.  When I have something on my mind, it usually comes out of my mouth before I can channel it through the proper filters, and I almost always end up offending someone.  As Daddy says "Your mouth is in drive and your brain is stuck in neutral".  Now, don't get me wrong, my parents TRIED to make me into a nice, polite, charming, upper middle class citizen.  I went to private Lutheran school for elementary, middle, and junior high school.  I had more than ten years of professional piano lessons and competed regularly.  I owned more than one dress at a time AND a pair of shoes that didn't have horse shit on them.  Hell, even these days, it has gotten to the point that my dad offered to buy me a brand new car if I could graduate from Charm School.  The agreement was that if I flunked out, however, I had to pay the cost of the class.  

I know a losing bet when I see one.  I'm not going to Charm School.  

I also have a rather dark sense of humor, and as most of you know, I find that yanking someone's chain solely to get a rise out of them is a great way to pass the time and keep myself entertained.  Perhaps that makes me an asshole, but I'm okay with that.  I think I'm funny, and so do my other sick, twisted friends.  We like each other.

Since I've become more and more involved in the "official rescue" world, I'm realizing that I miss my own "privatized rescue" corner of the horse world.  You have to be nice to people in "official rescue" land, even if they prove to you how profoundly stupid and worthy of being punched in the face they really are.  They'll say things to you that make you want to wrap your hands around their neck, and you have to smile and swallow how you truly feel in the name of being politically-correct.  Where I'm from, it's totally acceptable to tell them to bend over and fuck themselves.

This has been a very difficult transition for me to try to make.  I am a fish out of water in "official rescue" land.

God bless the team at the rescue I work with now.  Let me be clear, I am not on the Board of Directors, nor am I nearby enough to attend the vast majority of their functions, but I've been told I have a talent when it comes to writing, so I use that when I can to help with fundraising and campaigns.  Unfortunately, my past has followed me and my previous transgressions have reared their ugly heads and forced the team at the rescue to do a fairly decent amount of Damage Control.  These folks should work for the President.  When it comes to damage control, they put his staff to shame.

The problem is one point, many many months ago, I visited another "official rescue" on unofficial business to see a friend of mine who was working there and to check out the setup.  Always one to take a look at other facilities, feed programs (especially rehabilitation feed programs), and business operations, I constantly file away little tips and tricks that might make my own life easier once I have my own facility and can pick up where I left off.  The problem was that, once again, my less-than-sensitive sense of humor flew straight over the head of the owner of that rescue, and while we were discussing the financial woes of her rescue, I pointed out her abnormally-high euthanasia rates (we won't even address THAT issue) and said that perhaps she should consider selling the carcasses of the draft horses to an exotic cat sanctuary.  It would have provided a humane end for the horses (although they would have to be shot instead of injected), a dual-purpose for their remains in that they'd serve to feed endangered cats, she'd save money on cremation and/or burial costs, and would generate some financial income for the rescue to offset the enormous feed bills.

Sometimes I say things just for shock value, everyone goes "Ohmygod Jac, what the hell is wrong with you?!", we all have a laugh, and that's the end of it.  This apparently-offended rescue owner didn't say anything at the time, and my friend, knowing I was completely and wholeheartedly full of shit, laughed right along with me.  It was a joke, and it was over.  For the love of God, that was the end of it.  But apparently that's where I went wrong...

Some people just can't take a joke.  They take every word out of your mouth and twist and turn it into some sort of three-headed horse-eating monster, then spread it to every corner of the world that'll listen to them.  Those people are no fun, and really, they should come with a warning label so people like me can stay far, far away from them.


I would, however, happily feed a lawyer to one!  I know I'm not alone in that thinking.

I bet this guy is a lawyer.  I hear they're delicious.  Nothing like the taste of overpaid, Armani-dressed asshole first thing in the morning, eh Mufasa?

Anyway, the rescue owner that I clearly offended and apparently traumatized in the process waited the better part of eight or nine months to contact the other rescue that I work with to inform them that I am a horse-abusing, big-cat feeding, psychopath and that they really should look into whether or not they want me associated with them.  Because truly-concerned people really wait eight months to share information like that....riiiiiight....

Needless to say, because I am clearly incapable of having one of those "politically correct" conversations that you have to be able to have if you want to be allowed to speak on behalf of the rescue, I wasn't allowed to share my TRUE feelings about this woman in a reply message, but the PR department did just fine, the message said something along these lines: I'm NOT an official representative of that rescue, although they very much DO appreciate me for my writing and fundraising talents, and I DON'T feed horses to exotic cats.  

But, the beauty of this blog is that it's MY blog.  So I can say whatever I want!  You, ma'am, need to go buy yourself a sense of humor...and please pick up a nice Armani suit for yourself while you're at it, they tell me Simba's getting hungry.  He likes plaid.  

Wednesday, April 3, 2013

Horse Porn

I like to think I'm a fairly open-minded person.  I don't vote (mainly because I have an adversity to waiting in long lines and telephone calls from strangers telling me what I should and shouldn't care about), but I DO know the guy that's in office now just isn't getting the job done.  I have friends of just about every ethnicity and religious group, and yes, I mock them for their differences.  I don't care who you love, as long as you're happy, I think everyone should be entitled to marry whomever the hell they choose.  I also don't think it should cost more to adopt a baby than it does to abort one, but if you want to abort, you should be able to.  I think that's a pretty good argument for my open-mindedness, don't you?

The thing that I just absolutely, positively CANNOT deal with, however, once again comes back to Facebook.  Now, prior to starting this blog, I had a nice little cozy group of Facebook friends that I knew personally in the real world.  Facebook was simply a place for me to post ten thousand pictures of my stupid horse, and send those obnoxious little drawings of Victorian-era people with the funny captions to friends.  If I didn't know you, it didn't matter, because you didn't know me and why would you want to be friends with me anyway?  I'm just that asshole broad with the sorrel gelding.  Just one of a million.

Post-blog, things changed.  I started getting friend-requests from people I'd never even heard of with whom I had absolutely no friends in common.  Now apparently, in Facebook-land, there is some sort of unspoken rule that if I have a profile picture of a horse, and YOU have a profile picture of a horse, then we should automatically be friends because, well, horses are cool and, like, stuff....right?  I suppose somewhere along this time, after fighting a hell of a good battle, I surrendered my "No, I'm not confirming you as a friend, I have no idea who in the hell you ARE" rule of thumb and gave in.  Now, I have three times as many Facebook friends (which validates me as a human being), and I know less than a third of them personally.  Whatever.  I'm still cooler than you are because my friend count is higher than yours.  So there.

The problem is this: the majority of these random friends are horse people, and many of them have mares in foal or are self-proclaimed breeders.  And we aaaaaall know how I feel about those types.  Rather than publicly bash them for their ignorance and stupidity in contributing to the unwanted horse population by breeding shit to shit to get baby-shit, I do my best to ignore their blatant disregard for producing quality horseflesh, and try to find the humor in their status updates of the trials and tribulations of waiting for their mares to foal.  Nothing makes me smile during my morning coffee quite like reading about how so-and-so was up ALL night waiting for her cow-hocked, sway-backed, ewe-necked grade mare to pop that baby out!  Haha, suckers, I slept for ten hours straight!

The statuses are amusing to me, but I just can't deal with the pictures.  The sight of that same conformational-clusterfuck mare heavy in foal make me sad deep down in that tiny little space that people call my heart.  But the worst part is that I just can't understand why anyone would think that the Facebook community would want to see thirty-seven pictures of their mare's udder, teats, or her freakin' hoo-hah!  Listen up, people, I KNOW what that stuff looks like, as does the rest of the horsey-inclinded Facebook world.  I do not need a day-by-day progression of how droopy and sloppy it's getting because she's "almost there"!  Do you take pictures of your wife/sister/daughter's crotch and chest days before she's about to give birth?  No, because that would get you murdered.  Just because your mare doesn't kick your skull in doesn't mean your actions are appreciated.

Have you people noticed that REPUTABLE, responsible breeders don't post those same pictures?  They don't ask the world "How close do you think she is judging by her gargantuan, gaping vagina and the wax on these nipples?".  They don't report the color and consistency of the discharge on a daily basis, and they don't end up being questioned by non-horsey friends who are considering turning them in for bestiality.  Responsible breeders show pics of the mare, who is almost ALWAYS aesthetically pleasing, pictures of the stallion, who is a handsome representation of his breed or discipline, and then they put up the disgustingly-cute pictures once that gorgeous baby is brought into this world.  And then they post the price tag and we all keep on dreaming.

Those are the pictures I want to have plastered all over my news feed.  So please, keep your vaginas tucked away where they should be.  The indecent exposure of your mare's privates isn't something anyone wants to be scarred with.  Thank you for understanding.