Tag Archives: horse

2036. A systemically insensitive Western

(The opening sentence for this story was suggested by Nitin from India whom I would like to thank for giving me this impossible starter. If you want to join in the fun of suggesting a future opening sentence for these stories, please leave your suggestion in the comments – only one suggestion per person!)

A trumpet, a crumpet and a horse walked into a bar.

“I don’t want to blow my own trumpet,” said the horse, “but I think my presence adds a touch of class to this bar.”

“That’s fascinating,” said the trumpet. “I hope they serve food. I could eat a horse.”

“It’s nice to get out of the cold,” said the crumpet. “It’s as warm as toast in here.”

This rather inane conversation continued. They ordered drinks and then several more.

Suddenly a systemically ethnocentric pink highwayman cowboy entered the bar flashing his pistol. “Hands up!” he shouted. “This is a holdup! Hands up!”

The trumpet, the crumpet, and the horse stared at one another in disbelief.

“Yet another systemically ethnocentric pink highwayman cowboy,” declared the horse. “Don’t you get sick of everyone thinking all drunks in a bar are the same? We’re not clocks. We don’t have hands.”

“Let’s gallop out of here,” said the trumpet. There were overtones of despicableness in his voice.

They began to trot out despite the dangerous pistol being pointed. The crumpet tarried. To be honest she was rather attracted to the systemically ethnocentric pink highwayman cowboy. In fact, it is possible the charms of the crumpet saved everyone in the bar from getting shot.

“Thank you, Crumpet!” everyone shouted (except for one German visitor who shouted out “Danke schön, Crumpet”, and a systemically ethnocentric aquamarine silicon valley CEO who shouted “Nothing beats a bit of crumpet”).

Outside, the trumpet commented that he thought the crumpet had hit the right note. He leapt onto the horse, and together they cantered off into the sunset.

1347. Ride into town

Butch would saddle his horse and ride into town. It was an all-day expedition and a weekly one – every Wednesday. Butch always admonished his wife, Mary, the same way: “Make the grocery list thoroughly. I don’t want to have to go into town a second time in one week. If you leave something off the list, that’s it. We’ll just have to do without.”

Then off he would go, leaving the farm, and the milking of the cow, to the care of his wife for the day. This weekly Wednesday venture was Butch’s way of having a day off. And it was useful as well; someone had to get the groceries. Besides, Roosters’ Saloon, the local watering trough, was an added attraction.

“Silly man,” thought Mary every time, “if he just took his cell phone I could text him with anything I’d forgotten.”