30 November, 2005


The following newsblurb was sent to me by a dear friend and coworker - code name "Deep Butt" (a.k.a. Dirty Sanchez). He found it at breitbart.com (I haven’t a clue or a care what this website is or espouses) and intrigued me muchly.



A man has pleaded guilty to trespassing in connection with a fatal horse-sex case.

James Michael Tait, 54, of Enumclaw, was accused of entering a barn without the owner's permission. Tait admitted to officers that he entered a neighboring barn last July with friend Kenneth Pinyan to have sex with a horse, charging papers said. Tait was videotaping the episode when Pinyan suffered internal injuries that led to his death.

Tait pleaded guilty Tuesday and was given a one-year suspended sentence, a $300 fine, and ordered to perform eight hours of community service and have no contact with the neighbors.

The prosecutor's office said no animal cruelty charges were filed because there was no evidence of injury to the horses.



Oh... my... god.

From a very early age, I have been an addict of good storytelling. From childhood’s picture books, to the assigned canonical literature of adolescence, to today, when I consume vast quantities of mostly well written fiction, I look first to narrative for entertainment. I’m often rather embarrassed to mention my favorite authors within my circle of erudite and endearingly pompous friends. It seems the establishment doesn’t hold David Sedaris, Sandra Tsing Loh, and Garrison Keillor in high esteem for the quality of their craft; but hot damn, can thum foke tell a story! I am forgiven, though, because my tastes run the gamut, as a glance at my crammed shelves will reveal.

After my blissful and all-too-short undergrad days at DePaul, I quickly hit upon the idea of pursuing a PhD, and tricked a very good school into admitting me. My brilliant plan was to become a professor, and get paid to enjoy stories (literature) and tell (teach) them to our nation’s youth. I was crushed when I found out that Academia simply isn’t interested in narratives – at least as they appear in the books people read. One is rather expected to invent a story that supposedly lies within the book, for example about how character X’s actions in this scene bespeak a longing for carnal congress with mummy dearest. The worst kinds of idiotic ramblings about nit-picky picayunish details even the author wouldn’t get – AH! That’s EXACTLY what makes them important! – turned these mental masturbators on. I really wanted to be one of them, but instead I almost turned away from books altogether. Luckily, I’ve found my way back.

I’ll try not to get parabolic here.

This story of the horse actually mimics an episode in the book I'm reading now (titled, inexplicably (so far), The Hippopotamus). Stephen Fry sets it up brilliantly, making it seem as though the young child is simply a strange pervert with very loving feelings for a denizen of the stable. It is gradually revealed that the child has the power to heal, chiefly via a laying on of hands, and this particular ailment was internal - requiring insertion. A brilliant plot twist, simultaneously making me want to be a writer and convincing me I'll never have quite enough wild imagination to succeed.

Never mind. I’ve run out of things to say – I can’t remember what I was going to say next.

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