A horse walks into a bar. The barman winces with empathy. The horse freezes, his eyes staring long and hard into the barman’s wide blue eyes. The barman’s eyelids start to quiver and shake the pressure of the moment showing on his face – drawn and drained of colour. The moment is long, epochs wide; a million worlds explode and die only to be reborn anew in the glorious technicolour of the cosmos.
“Getting a bit fucking dramatic in here isn’t it?” Quipped the horse and he took a seat at the bar. “I only came in for a drink and maybe some light philosophical banter,” he continued, aware of the barman’s trance like state melting back into his usual jovial self.
“Do you want any nuts or crisps?”
“No nuts, I’ve got that problem with eating peanuts,” said the horse as he watched the pint of ale being poured. “Oi mind that head; reminds me of a man I saw once, massive fucking head he had on him. Like someone had dropped a giant medicine ball on his neck and thought; ‘ah fuck it, it’ll do’.”
“Have to say,” began the barman, passing a packet of salt and vinegar crisps with his drink to the horse. “We’ve gone from overly dramatic to what can only be termed shitting banal conversation.”
The horse nodded in agreement; “Balls to it then, let’s talk about summat more interesting.”
“Like what?” Asked the barman as he inspected his nails for dirt.
“I dunno; space? Time? Travel?” Offered the horse.
“I got caught on the A666 last weekend,” started the barman as he regaled the horse with his heroic fight against a two mile tailback because of the road works. “And it was hotter than shit,” concluded the barman.
“Yeah they don’t call it the Devil’s Highway for nothing; and what’s with all the road works constantly? Pain in the arse going anywhere these days,” the horse replied snorting loudly.
“Aye I know,” nodded the barman sympathetically.
Silence descended upon the pub again.
“You’re not really into this today are you?” Observed the horse, “seriously, that was a boring fucking story. Nobody enjoys boring stories. I may as well talk about how my feet haven’t grown in a couple of years. Who gives a fuck?”
“Hmmm.” Hummed the barman.
“Go on,” said the horse.
“No that was it, I was just hmmming.”
The horse sat there, his face a picture of what could be quite correctly described as a faint look of disgust. “Why the fuck do I come in here?”
Conveniently, an exceedingly interesting person came into the bar. “Ahoy there maties,” boomed the Dread Pirate Captain Black Death Esq. The horse turned to the interlocutor:
“No way; piss off with the pirate character. That’s just fucking lazy.”
The Dread Pirate doffed his elaborately wide brimmed tricorn hat garnished with exquisite feathers of the exotic birds of the Caribbean, and pissed off.
“Well, what kind of person would be interesting?” Asked the barman of the horse sat before him.
“Dunno, something original. Also, why is that picture of the donkey still up as illustration? I’m a bastard horse. It’s fucking amateur hour this.”
The horse climbed to his feet. “You know what: fuck this I’m going. See yer later chuck.”
Moral of the tale: Horses lack the social delicacy and grace to be successful diplomats.