Dear Ms. Fantz,
As a retired Kentucky Derby horse, I’ve been relegated to breeding to spread my statuesque genes. I seriously have to pump the pretty ladies up with my thoroughbred juices at least three times a day. (My all-time high was nine times in one day. I was so hungry after that, could have eaten a horse.) My dad fathered 417 children, and my mom told me she used to get plowed at least four times a day by various stallions.
Here’s my problem: I’ve been doing this for two years, and I’ve grown tired of sex. Sometimes I can’t get it up, even when I focus on my hot-and-steamy prom date from high school. Plus, I’m only 5 years old — if life treats me well, I may have another decade or two in front of me. I have dreams of traveling and taking up synchronized swimming.
But, no. I. Must. Get. It. Up. All. Day. Long. And. Ahhhhhh.
Sorry, what’d you say? *exhaling smoke*
Oh yeah. I want to slow down on the humping. And I definitely need to find a support group.
— Stallion of the Battalion
Damn dude. You must be hung like a horse. “A rousing golf clap erupts throughout the hushed crowd,” the announcer whispers.
I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you may have only a couple years left. You poor thoroughbreds are used and abused and then sent to the Fuck Farm to squirt until you die. Unless you fractured a leg. Then it’s off to the slaughterhouse you go.
I am not aware of any support groups, although I have the utmost empathy for you, so I’d be pleased to offer you pro-bono counseling. (Please proceed via FaceTime, email or phone, as I’m allergic to equines.)
You didn’t ask for this life. You were one of 400-plus children, sorely neglected by your parents. While being primed for agility and speed, you spent a couple of young years being whipped, berated and starved so you could cap lengthy training with a two-minute race. (Only to be upstaged by drunk celebrities in stupid hats.)
It’s not your fault, buddy. You were bred into this hot-blooded mess. You’re typecast. Nobody cares about your synchronized swimming aspirations. You’re an aging thoroughbred whose current job is to forcibly impregnate mares. Of course you can’t sleep at night. You’ve got a permanently raw fifth leg and emotional scars.
However, would you rather go to the North Korean slaughterhouse and wind up being Saran Wrapped meat in a display case next to a dead octopus in the grocery store?
I didn’t think so. Put your big boy pants on, suck it up and go fuck that filly.
Read more Fantz: coloradodaily.com/columnists. Stalk her: twitter.com/fantzypants.