My 5 Least Favourite Horse Names

For no real reason, here's my least favourite names for horses:

5.  Jingle all the Way

4. Clive

3. Margaret Thatcher

2. Otis Redding

1. π 

I escape the gang of horse-burglars! Using all my cunning, tact and dexterity, I ran away from them. Well, ok, that was a terrible plan - they just chased me, clearing obstacles with ease. So I hid in a phonebox, and held the door shut. Not having hands, the horses simply bashed at the sides for a while, until they got bored and went away.

 Another brave victory over the forces of darkness, methinks!

 Anyway, since I was in a phonebox anyway, I decided to make a call. If there was one person who would survive a horsepocalypse, it was Max. Carrying on with life out a sheer willpower. Or annoyance.

 After a few rings, he answered the phone. My phone, it should be noted. I knew he was after my house - a belief further enforced when he answered with my name. He's stolen my identity! That little bastard, I'll have to get it back now. Or, at least, an identity of equal worth. Or a better identity. That's really what I want.

 Oh, and he told me the horse-thing was just localised, they'd taken over a small area of the city. So there'll be no more talk of horses, ok?

Day of the... Horses? Terrible, terrible title. Does a good job of not raising your hopes.

The streets are deserted. I'm not surprised, it was inevitable that one day, I would wake up in a post-apocalyptical city. That horses would seize power was an unusual twist, of course, but I wasn't worried.

 Well, that's not entirely true. I was pretty worried. For one thing, I don't have any apples, and a group of horses were eyeing my up from a nearby alleyway. Black stallions. They just happened to be that colour, this isn't a racist thing. In fact, they weren't even black, just hidden in the dark of the alley maw.

 Searching my person, I looked for anything that could help me - a saddle, the ability to whisper, anything. But to no avail, and the horses drew closer, brandishing horse-shoes threateningly.

 Things do not look good.

I've been in a coma

Yes, that's why I haven't posted for a while. Well, not really. But you already live in my insane fantasy world, we might as well continue that way.

Anyway, the coma was very relaxing and all, but I can't help but feel I've been missing out. For one thing, all the medical staff in my hospital appear to be horses. I imagine that the last month has been quite exciting for you all, as our horse overlords seized control of the planet and so on. But me, I prefer a nice steak. What's that got to do with anything? Who knows, I'm just out of a coma. The fact that I'm writing this at all seems miraculous to me.

Anyway, tally ho! I'm off to get more horse tranquillisers. The horses like to keep me sedated. Can't think why.

Horses...

I'm still elderly. Well, not really. I'm afraid much of this blog is a work of fiction. Sorry if you feel misled. Anyway, I'm old. Max has taken to spending his money on horse racing. Well, on gambling on horse racing. He hasn't bought a racetrack or anything - again, sorry if you feel mislead. It is a maybe-commonly-known-fact that in horse racing parlance, a maiden is a horse that has yet to run a race; it’s not an animal that is still a virgin. I didn't know that, it came up on my screen.
 I don't have anywhere to go with this. Max didn't have sex with a horse or anything. An elderly idiot engaging in sexual acts with animals is not a taboo I'm willing to break just yet.
 I wrote an article about horses in Red Dead Redemption on Bukisa one day. Don't care for video games? Then don't feel pressured to click the link to the site. Incidentally, Bukisa pays me $10 for every thousand visitors I get. Or something like that. Just saying. There's a link to sign up in the top left of this page. Go on, do it, let me syphon your profits so I can buy a yogurt-filled swimming pool.
 Yea, as I was saying... I don't mind horses, so with interest I spotted an advert on the scourge of youth, Facebook, earlier: design your own horse. Unfortunately, it was for a game. I had hoped for genetic engineering.

Horseradished

I opened the curtains, and saw a sad horse. (I appear to have lost what little ability I had at writing.) He was very sad. He had big eyes...
 Anyhoo... I looked at the horse. He was a pitiful looking thing, standing in the snow-coated field beside my house. I matched his gaze, watching him for some time. After a few moments, I heard a snort from behind me. Startled, I turned and found another horse, with one hoof in my back pocket. Apparently, while I was distracted with my pitying, this horse had stolen my wallet, and was now stuffing a horseradish into my back pocket. There seemed little reason for this, and can only assume it had something to do with "horse" being in "horseradish". Frankly, the whole affair has left me shaken, confused and diabetic.
 I despair for the youth of today, I really do.

A Sobering Tale

I took another sip of the generic beer I had ordered, hoping if I kept drinking it, I could block out the figure who sat opposite me. His name was George, I think. He had always been a good friend of mine, apparently. To be honest, I had little idea who he was, except for the fact he had tried to sell me a wind-up portable television in 1991, and since I was off my head on a combination of Draino and heroin coffee - as was fashionable in the Thatcherite era - I had told him we should have a drink one day. And so, in Pythonesque fashion, he had taken me up on the offer 18 years later.
He was telling a story, I think. I didn't really care what it was about, but if it was like the last 7 he had told, it was about his van's various problems. My beer was flat, but it didn't matter. I didn't like beer. I must stop impulse-buying beverages.
"I'll be damned..." He continued, "Damned, I'll be... If I'm going home to that whore-bitch of a wife tonight."
"Oh..." I offered
"You know... She used to be such a pretty thing... Well, not pretty... Handsome! Yes... when I first met her, you know, she looked just like Han Solo. Same dress sense and everything! But now... She..."
He leaned across the table, and I reciprocated, interested to hear his secret:
"She... She doesn't!"
He leaned back, nodding and smirking conspiratorially.
"Yea... Not going back there... Wild horses... couldn't... drag me... to water, can't make me DRINK!"
I watched him topple from his chair and stumble towards the next table, where he grabbed a vase of fake flowers happily. As he waltzed around with them, I wondered how hard it would be to actually attach him to some wild horses. It is a thought worth some further consideration...

The Grand National

"Yay, horsey ride!" I yelled, leaping on my Uncle Harry(I was younger, this isn't a incestuous rape story)
"Well, all right." He replied, with mock annoyance.
Picking up speed, he began to run me around the house, taking the corners rather rappidly. Unfortunately, as we took the corner into the kitchen, he slipped and fell hard on the floor, sending me flying onto the soft corridor carpet.
"Are you ok?" I asked, running over to my hunched-up uncle.
"Yes... no, wait [as he tried to stand] my hip. Damn, go fetch some help!"
Unfortunately, there was only one thing we could do in the situation. Aunt Harriet fetched the shotgun from the shed.

I don't race any more, I've put on too much weight.