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 this....at 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.
Let me be clear on this: I WOULD NEVER EVER EVER EVER FEED A HORSE TO A CAT. EVER!
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.