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big_damn_festAfter decades when the chickens controlled the music industry, the horses were champing at the bit. The Dreamcolts—Deena, Lorrell, and Ephraim—were young and talented and ambitious. They had the audience in their pasterns as they performed “Stop! You’re Stepping on my Hoof!” The applause was deafening.
Yet, in the end, the cash prize at Amateur Night at the A Pollo Theater went to a puny rooster act (Poultry in Motion) whose crow never even reached the third balcony. That didn’t surprise Ephraim. He knew that nobody was interested in anything except white cock anyway.
Still, even their Place result was enough to get them booked to do some Shows, and the $50 prize, added to their modest savings, was enough to pay for new costumes.
“Oooh!” Lorell said. “These bridles sure put the Equine in Sequined.”
Ephraim turned his head, straining to see his hindquarters. “Does this girth make my ass look fat?”
“No,” Deena said. “Your fat ass makes your ass look fat.”
They had always worn the same costumes, and Ephraim thought nothing of it. But one day, there was a blind item in Pal O’Mino’s Page Six column about cross-dressage, and Ephraim thought he could hear malicious whispers whenever he dropped in at a fashionable watering hole.
Then the Dreamcolts got their big break. They were signed for a Colt .45 commercial. With Clyde Sdale. Oh, he was smooth. Look up. Look down. He was the horse your horse could smell like.
Ephraim had been singing about love as long as he could remember. Now it was time to get some, to let the lady of his heart know just how he felt about her.
“You’re my cousin!” Deena said, shrinking away.
“That’s okay, baby, we’re horses, inbreeding is good! We’ll have lots of little thoroughbreds, you and me.”
Deena snorted. “I need a stallion.”
“One night only?”
But she only snickered. Ephraim lowered his head and slunk away.
He thought he was going to have it all, until he lost it all. Too much sour mash. Too many missed rehearsals. Falling down drunk on stage. Then he was out, replaced by a skinny, simpering filly who was happy to stand in the background and croon “Ooooh-oooh.” Royalties? The roosters in the executive suite said there weren’t any, all eaten up by advances and legal fees and studio time. Someone else’s name appeared on the sheet music of the numbers Ephraim had written.
Broken-hearted, broke, Ephraim fell Behind the Music. Couldn’t afford to snort those long lines of coke anymore.
He hauled himself to Deena and Clyde’s fancy barn, planning to OD. Let them find me here and take me to the glue factory. He was on the pipe, and if you think it’s easy to light a crack pipe without opposable thumbs, you don’t understand degradation.
But, at the very last moment, he lit up, then nudged the pipe over to the stable door, kicking it until the flame caught.
“Told you I wasn’t going,” Ephraim neighed, galloping off at last to ride across the nation. He felt strong enough for anything. Maybe even try England, where either you’re a Grand National winner or you’re lasagna.
Off he went into the night. Steppin’ to the Baaaad side. The rein of terror had begun.
Yet, in the end, the cash prize at Amateur Night at the A Pollo Theater went to a puny rooster act (Poultry in Motion) whose crow never even reached the third balcony. That didn’t surprise Ephraim. He knew that nobody was interested in anything except white cock anyway.
Still, even their Place result was enough to get them booked to do some Shows, and the $50 prize, added to their modest savings, was enough to pay for new costumes.
“Oooh!” Lorell said. “These bridles sure put the Equine in Sequined.”
Ephraim turned his head, straining to see his hindquarters. “Does this girth make my ass look fat?”
“No,” Deena said. “Your fat ass makes your ass look fat.”
They had always worn the same costumes, and Ephraim thought nothing of it. But one day, there was a blind item in Pal O’Mino’s Page Six column about cross-dressage, and Ephraim thought he could hear malicious whispers whenever he dropped in at a fashionable watering hole.
Then the Dreamcolts got their big break. They were signed for a Colt .45 commercial. With Clyde Sdale. Oh, he was smooth. Look up. Look down. He was the horse your horse could smell like.
Ephraim had been singing about love as long as he could remember. Now it was time to get some, to let the lady of his heart know just how he felt about her.
“You’re my cousin!” Deena said, shrinking away.
“That’s okay, baby, we’re horses, inbreeding is good! We’ll have lots of little thoroughbreds, you and me.”
Deena snorted. “I need a stallion.”
“One night only?”
But she only snickered. Ephraim lowered his head and slunk away.
He thought he was going to have it all, until he lost it all. Too much sour mash. Too many missed rehearsals. Falling down drunk on stage. Then he was out, replaced by a skinny, simpering filly who was happy to stand in the background and croon “Ooooh-oooh.” Royalties? The roosters in the executive suite said there weren’t any, all eaten up by advances and legal fees and studio time. Someone else’s name appeared on the sheet music of the numbers Ephraim had written.
Broken-hearted, broke, Ephraim fell Behind the Music. Couldn’t afford to snort those long lines of coke anymore.
He hauled himself to Deena and Clyde’s fancy barn, planning to OD. Let them find me here and take me to the glue factory. He was on the pipe, and if you think it’s easy to light a crack pipe without opposable thumbs, you don’t understand degradation.
But, at the very last moment, he lit up, then nudged the pipe over to the stable door, kicking it until the flame caught.
“Told you I wasn’t going,” Ephraim neighed, galloping off at last to ride across the nation. He felt strong enough for anything. Maybe even try England, where either you’re a Grand National winner or you’re lasagna.
Off he went into the night. Steppin’ to the Baaaad side. The rein of terror had begun.
