An Explanatory Node

Where Buttter introduced himself with concession I will introduce him via parable: a short tale of a young colt in fevers ashore.

Some four years ago, while resigning himself to his afternoon routine of trot, banter, shit, reflect, a certain Category III stallion faltered: a carriage had arrived, rare for this time of year. The air had become suddenly still. Birds stopped chirping, rabbits receded into their dens. On the side of the carriage was painted an oyster, of the worst type of kitsch, surrounded by matte foam. The door to the carriage opened and out of the shadows emerged a flank the likes of which he hadn’t seen in years. The ass continued, followed by a ribcage and shoulder sublime. There were dots where he had seen lines, hooves where there would be dirt. This alien vessel was treating him to a nee parfaite and he was all too happy to play the Paphosian oarsman. A whisper – peeeee – escaped his anus. In his tunnel vision Boundary (the horse) finally caught a glimpse of its head, the most perfegg of all. He didn’t have to look down to know his reveries had left him with something of a horse’s boner.

The days that followed were spent on a cloud, floating over the river. His trainer had arranged for an introduction. Sparks flew. Dreams were of love and piqued with sorrow. Before long he inserted his gigantic dick in her vagina for about fifteen seconds. It was harmony unseen since that rabble of pre-Caelusian chaos, when dark was light mixed with moisture-semen.

Almost one year later Mien (the mare) gave birth to a crumpled little package, wet. It stumbled at first, as most foal do, and went nose-deep into a heap of father’s newly-placed shit. And this is where it got its name, Big Brown, executor of the biggest flop in horseracing history.

The next few years have been consumed and regurgitated and as such aren’t worth your or my time. It seemed fit for some light to be shed on the genesis of a life misinterpreted and dismembered, questioned and cajoled. Crescent. Crisp. Big Brown may have failed his Triple Crown foray, but does that discount the rare souvenir his father deposited deep inside his mother? Will our modern times relinquish its bloodthirst for meaning?

With these words I bid you remain attentive to the insightful whore residing in these pixels. His services are yours, his cavities agape.