A Gentlemen's Theory: The Best Job Ever
This is a guest post from Caleb Bacon who co-hosts the weekly podcast: The Gentlemen's Club with Hammer and Bacon. Bacon, a resident of Los Angeles, is A Gentleman. A different Gentlemen?s Theory can be heard on each episode. The Gentlemen's Club can be found on iTunes or gentlemensclubpodcast.com.
The world is full of professions that any gentlemen would do for free. The guy who does the ?Real Men of Genius? commercials. The man who holds the yard marker at NFL games. And, of course, Strip club DJ.
There?s one gig that bests all of those, while offering tremendous prestige, plenty of sex appeal, and some nice coin --
Horse studding. It?s The Best Job Ever.
Picture this dream world:
You?re a champion racehorse. You?ve won, placed and shown from Louisville to Dubai. You?re a superjock with world-class athleticism, and have, as most photo-finishes have revealed, a whole lot of heart too.
Your dad was probably a famous thoroughbred. And, unlike the talentless spawn of most human celebrities, you?re deserving of your global attention. You are not the equine version of Paris Hilton.
Your handlers strongly suggest you retire early. Why risk injury when you can safely donate valuable DNA for many years to come? Your career has a second act which you?ll enjoy more than the thrilling first. You get to become a hoofed Jerry Seinfeld, abandoning television while rated number one. (Hey, Seinfeld retired to stud.)
So you leave the racetrack at age four (about 18 in human-years.) You?re put up in a barn swank enough for Donald Trump. Each meals comes from your personal chef who was trained by Wolfgang Puck. The salt-lick he?s crafted for you would make any Top Chef winner jealous.
That?s just how you roll.
A polite knock can be heard against the mahogany door of your spacious, air-conditioned stall.
?Sir,? a humbled voice offers. ?Your two-thirty.?
You stamp once, communicating that you?re ready for this afternoon delight.
The wide door swings open. Your Barnpimp stands there, gripping the reins of a leggy mare. Like you, she?s of good stock, athletic, and desired. But she?s the one who has traveled to your domicile of love.
Small talk isn?t required, and you soon ?cover? (the actual term) your new friend. At this moment, like many others, you?re grateful your manhood could be measured with a yard-stick.
After burning a few calories you expel a cathartic whinny as if to knowingly ask, ?who?s your stallion?? She knows.
Your superseed swims upstream. Destination: Baby-maker.
Upon dismount she winks at you. Maybe she wants to stay and cuddle. After all, your hay is the finest in the world -- light, fluffy, never dry. It?s more like a cloud -- a cloud you want for yourself.
Your Barnpimp takes her away, his eyes never meeting yours, respecting your refractory period.
The mare leaves with a toothy grin, thankful for your sexual donation. That?s the last you?ll ever see of her. She doesn?t even want you to add her on Facebook. You?ll never tire of this.
After a nap, Mister Wembley, your wealthy owner (who you just made wealthier) stops by with good news. He?s just heard that, ?Windy Summer Breeze,? one of your many children has qualified for the Kentucky Derby.
While you wish your son didn?t have such a stupid name, you?re thankful it?s not your problem. Wembley pats you on the back. Your sexload is now worth another $2,500. The two of you would fist-bump if it was anatomically possible.
A rapping is heard at your freshly lacquered stall door.
?It looks like your four-fifteen is here,? says a grinning Wembley.
?Who?s got it better than you??
As you neigh agreement, through a bay window, you spot a dark, hairy figure hiding in a tree. It?s renowned pornstar Ron Jeremy. He?s blotting his tears with a leaf.
Somehow you?re able to lip-read humans.
?I want to be you,? he mutters.
[The Gentlemen?s Club is anti-horse/human sexual relations, as well as anti-human/centaur sexual relations. However, there's not yet an official stance on horse-centaur sexual relations.]
photo credit: Rennett Stowe