foot envy

so there i am hoofin' it for the bus when i spot it - a nike ad. i've seen a million shoe advertisements, probably a billion, but for some reason this one hit me like an abusive father. i, no matter what i accomplish, will never be able to wear a pair of nike shoes. this fact seems inconsequential at best - especially since i son't endorse companines employing slave labour - but it's the corollary that floors me like a thirteen year old 'dancing' after her first mickey of rum: i'll never be a foot model, a shoe ad model, or be able to wear running shorts. no matter how much i moisturize, what kind of products i use, i will always have hooves, four hairy legs, and beautiful busy tail. i'm different, i'm in no way the examplar of what this society considers good looking.
how do i cope? what do i do? do i get down on myself for being different? No. Hell no. FUCK NO! i am a proud centaur, i'm a good person, an excellent listener, an amusing companion, and one hell of polo player. so fuck you nike and fuck the non-human torsoed horse you rode in on.
t-shirted centaur
p.s. you know whay i hate? guessing games. bwhaha. i'm fucking hilarious. that one's for you pan, you rambunctions nymph you.

from hating me to hating you: an investigation into why people suck

you ever sit down, think about writing, stare at your computer screen, and start wondering about all of the things you could've done your life? yeah, me neither.

no. that was a lie. i'm doing it right now and... now. and ... now. and ... well, you get the point. look at me, i'm 600years old and i'm a fucking investment banker, a junior investment banker! my g.e.d. scores were phenomenal! i could have gone to Harvard; i should have at least applied. me? i went to a variety of shitty no-name universities and drank my face and horse's ass off. you always think, "i'm young, i've got time, i can always go back to school..."

Idiot! why didn't you listen to that nagging voice? why did you say, "mom, i know what i'm doing"? Idiot. now, she's grazing on olympus and i'm getting coffee for old man Higgins - who i'm actually older than by about 550 years - because he doesn't think the "horse-thing-guy" can handle the Jurichio account. FUCK! what did i do with my life?

i thought life would be easy. i was popular, i was funny, i was good looking, but i was kid. i wasn't prepared for mortal life, for life on earth, how could i be? i didn't know what real life was going to be like, i learned most of my social skills from television shows - mt. olympus gets great reception - and being a centaur in olympus isn't a big deal. gods, demi-gods, and mythical creatures of all stripes are a lot more accepting than mortals. mortals have, without a doubt, the most exclusionary tendencies i've ever had the misfortune to observe.

Mortals exclude or otherwise treat people poorly on the basis of one or a combination of the following: race, colour, religion, coutnry of origin, height, weight, sexual orientation, monetary net worth, occupation, aesthetic organization of one's face, addition of horse's body to human torso.

what the fuck is wrong with you people! that's not even a complete list. look, if someone treats you poorly, makes you feel shitty, or otherwise does their best to make your life miserable then, by all means, feel free to avoid that particular person. don't judge that person - you don't know any of the myriad of events that have conspired to create this individual - and don't project his/her negative qualities onto everyone that resembles him/her. no one wants to appear racist but it seems that the vast majority of human beings i've come into contact with carry aroung more prejudices than they'd like to admit. whether couched in the terms of "personal preference" arguments or within ubiquitious specious appeals to evolution (i believe in evolution, i'm just sick of everyone using it to bolster pathetic arguments), the attitude of exclusion looms large in everyday human interactions. and, at the risk of falling prey to it, i'm sick of you prejudiced human pricks.
at least i'm trying to keep an open mind. i'd fuck a human chick. I'd fuck an ugly, fat, short human chickif she made me laugh. hell, i'd fuck an ugly, web-footed, fat, toothless, short, bi-sexual, black, irish, garbage jucie sommelier, claw-handed transexual with a unicorn tatoo if s/he(?) made me feel like maybe life wasn't so bad after all.
t-shirted centaur

goddamn dirty bipeds

look, my life isn't terrible. i'm not going hungry (i'm actually developing two mini paunches), i've got a job that i both enjoy and excell at, and i earn a pretty decent salary - so why am i so fucking miserable? long story short, i'm unhappy because i'm obsessed with television.

i'm a bit of an obsessive-compulsive type character and i've recently developed this fascination with actors; not with individual actors per se but with the art of acting. see, i want to be an actor, to be in a film, to make people laugh, to make them cry, in short i want to be part of the creative process. but in all my googleing i've yet to find one successful centaur actor. i don't know... it's just... hell, i don't know.

it's hard when you don't see anyone that looks like you represented on film. i haven't seen a centaur in a television show or movie since Hercules and Xena went off the air. even then, i'm pretty sure they were bipeds c.g.i.'d up to look like centaurs. sometimes, i'll be watching a show like the office and i'll be totally immersed in it when , all of a sudden, i become acutely aware of the fact that I am, in fact, not a part of thier world. Despite the fact that the the office is designed to mimic the world i do inhabit, it's a sanitized treatment of it; it's a world inhabited by actors, human actors with their perfect human legs and buttocks. every episode of the office is an exclusionary tome, reiterating my difference, reinforcing my alienation, and reminding me that i am not what society wants to see.
i'd love to be an actor. i'd love to create something that someone could relate to. i'd also like to get laid but the women on lavalife aren't interested in centaurs. "i'm looking for personality, blah, blah, blah." BULLSHIT! you're looking for guy that's 6" taller than you, has a rippling six-pack, and is ridiculously goodlooking. well, i'm a nice guy, i'm good looking, and unlike the tall stud in the spring break picture, i'm not a date rapist. i guess some traits are more important than others (read: human legs)
sorry about the bitter post
t-shirted centaur

re-inventing lives

wow. i've read some pretty powerfull stuff today. it wasn't ondaatje, kierkegaard, or even cervantes saavedra. it wasn't even by an author with a double a'd surname (which is usually my sole criterion for determining what counts as powerful stuff).
it was, in fact, the work of our fellow bloggers. blogging is pretty cool because it's all about the nity gritty of people's lives. These bloggers grant us access to the nuts and bolts, to the weird orange shit that grows on the bottom of their shower curtains, to the piles of crusted up and mix-matched socks stashed behind thier beds ( figuratively speaking), of thier very lives. that's a huge honour.

people are reaching out, connecting us to their lives, asking us to acknowledge them as fully developed human beings. these bloggers aren't lab assistants, cooks, or students, they're people with fears, dreams, bizare pecadillos, and a love of toffuti. these are real people trying to make sense of their lives, to find a purpose, to find meaning. is blogging an excercise in metaphysical semantics? or, for that matter does "metaphysical semantics" even mean anything?

wow. i don't have the answers. i'm just a t-shirt wearing, investment banking centaur with a broadband connection and, with any luck, some new friends. i'm grateful for everyone who posts on eblogger - whether i agree with your point of view or not - because i feel that, essentially, we're all here for the same reasons. We're all here making sense of our lives, the world we find ourselves in, and to make some new friends.
t-shirted centaur

gov't mule (part II): enter deus ex machina

so there i am, chained to a parking meter with a cop yelling things at me like: do you or don't you have the power to steal souls? was stealing the oranges essential to your plan to steal her soul? or were they for some other, more nefarious, endeavor? are you or are you not a minotaur?
my headache was at a fevered pitch andmy hind quarters ached something fierce so i asked the cop if i could reach into my saddle bag for some medication. Big mistake.

cop: medication eh? you think i'm gonna allow to reach in there and pull out a lightening bolt or some such mythical tool with which to dispatch me? i think not my four legged friend!

me: *?* lightening?... i'm just a t-shirted, investment banking centaur trying...

cop: whoa, whoa, whoa don't spin your web of lies and sould stealing magic on me buddy. keep your hands where i can see 'em and i'll just search your fancy horse purse...

me: it's a saddle bag!

cop: ... faggy mare's purse for contraband, weapons, or occult paraphanelia. [begins rummaging] weh-he-hell...what do we got here? [pulls out a perscription bottle] looks like illegal dope to me.

me: that's prescription! that's my doctor

cop: sez here they's horse tranquilizers...

me: i'm a centaur!

cop: well, mr. scent-or, this bottle doesn't say anything about minotaurs, centaurs, or faggy mare's purse carrying carrying creatures so i'm taking your smelly, good for nothing, orange soul, stealing hide in!

me: technically, shouldn't it be "orange and soul stealing?" i don't think soul's are coloured.

cop: is that a racist remark?

me: *?*

cop: on top of all this, you're a racist too!

me: i'm a latino half-man and a brown horse...

cop [reaching for tazer] say good night mr.ed [deploys tazer]

everything went black after that. the next thing i remember was that i was kneeling on my front legs, my head was throbbing, and i was incredibly groggy. i was vaguely aware that my saddle bag wasn't on properly when i noticed it was laying beside me. I struggling to comprehend what was on my back when i hear it...the quiet moaning. i shudder at the thought of it. Dr. Rosenthal has helped me alot but i've got a long way to go. anyway, i hear something to the effect of "ohhh yeahh, do you like bareback you dirty old nag? i bet you do" and i can feel my human arms being pulled behind my human back and handcuffed.

me: hey, what are you doing?

cop: never mind nag, i'm just up here to cuff you.

me: this is outrageous! i want my lawyer immediately!

cop: whoa, whoa, whoa! no need for that kind of talk philly. i'm just gonna take you to a nice field out in the country where you can graze and be put out to stud.

me: what?! what the hell are you talking about? i don't eat grass, i like california rolls! this farce has gone on long enough.

[enter Hulk Hogan]
HH: i agree

cop: Hulk Hogan!

HH: that's right little hulkamaniac and the Hulkster is very disappointed in you. see, i've got this whole distresssing episode on tape here and i'm damn sure going to court to ensure you lose you badge and my buddy here is released and compensated.

cop: *** what if i let him go ...with a warning and promise never to bother him again?

HH: what do you say friend?

me: what? no! you're going to jail you sadistic prick.

HH: you heard the t-shirt wearing centaur. bring it in boys [enter old school wrestler's from the 80's including Mr. T] the boys have been deputized and are now the front line and end of the line in terms of justice in this country. [Jake the snake Roberts, the Iron Shiek, and Mr. T rip off the cop's uniform, cuff him, and usher him into van from the "A-team"]. Mr. t-shirt wearing centaur, you have our apologies and our promise to carry out justice.

unsure if any of this was actually happening or if i'd o.d.'d on traquilizers, i smiled weakly, shook his hand, and posed for a picture with the "Wrestling Justince Wranglers." the next thing i remember was waking up in my bed, a little worse for wear and tired as hell. i guess, the one thing i've learned is that old people are fucking crazy with their insane sense of sidewalk entitlement and that from now on i will hoof-kick any old person that invades my personal space. i've also learned that horse tranquilizers and Jack danilels are not as complimentary as i've been led to believe. oh, and that hulk Hogan is a hell of a guy.
t-shirted centaur

gov't mule (part 1)

i never thought i'd be bullied by a donkey let alone a mule. see, this is how it all went down:
it was a beautiful afternoon and i had had a particularly gruelling afternoon at UWIB. The old boys club at UWIB had taken it upon themselves to double my work load so that they could take ricky out to the links. "you don't mind do you t-shirted centaur? after all you know that Lily Ivory Links has a 'no cloven footed players' policy." it's the 21st century people! shouldn't we look past the shape, consistency, and constitution of one anothers feet! grow up. but what could i say; i want to head up the management consulting division and you don't get there by making waves.

my head aching, i decide to walk home in the hopes that the excercise - and that bottle of extra-strength tylenol that i chased with a 26 of jack daniels - would clear my mind and ease my troubled soul. and, do you know what? it was working. i threw on my ipod, cranked the decemberists, and let the healing begin. unfortunately, the universe had other plans for a poor and tired investment banking centaur (i think pan may have played a hand in this but i'm not sure. i'll ask dionysius if he knows anything when he gets back from cabo).

i'm walking down the street and i turn my head just long enough to grab a bottle of water from my Louis Vuitton saddle bag when some old lady bumbs into me and drops the bag she's carrying to the ground which, upon impact, sends what appears to be a thousand oranges off in all directions. i rip out my ear buds so i can ask her if she's okay but one of them hits her square in the eye and she starts screaming bloddy murder! my hind quarters kick up a bit - they always do that when i'm startled - and she then she starts screaming that a minotaur is trying to kill her. A MINOTAUR! are you fucking kidding me? read a book lady! better yet, try leaving your precious suburbs and check out the equine projects on the lower east side. you'll see plenty of centaurs you old bag. oh, oh, better still, check out any university library and i guarantee at least a 1/3 of the students there will be centaurs; we're an industrious and curious species. anyway, i swallow my pride and try to talk her down but she keeps screaming that she doesn't have any sugar cubes and for me not to look at her - i think she thought she would turn to stone. i never wanted to hoof-kick someone in the box more in my life but i maintained my cool.

sure enough, a cop bursts onto the scene and before i know it, one of my legs is cuffed to a parking meter! how embarrasing! the cop tells me to shut my "cud chewing" mouth (i don't chew cud! only ruminants do that and they have 4 stomachs! i only have two and one of those is stapled - once i started working all the sitting and snacking really took its toll). so, i just stood there, chained to the parking meter like some devilishly handsome rapid pitbull while this old bag spat out the most vitriolic and noxious slew of lies i've ever heard. long story short, the cop, who already hated my horse hide ass, now believes: that i had attempted to steal both the old bag's oranges and her soul and that i was behind both tupac's and biggie's murders. the cop didn't know who either man was so decided he was going to berate me for stealing oranges and suposed soul. as distressing as this incident was, i had no idea that the indignities that i had just endured would pale in the face of what was to come.

dreams of a sunburnt ass

i spent a portion of today talking to my friend ricky (the resident whiz kid of mergers and acquisitions) about his trip the "cottage." now, ricky's a good friend of mine, i like him, we hang out, but the more i heard about the "amazing cottage, Julie's sweet rack, Jill's (Julie's younger, hotter identical twin) sweet(er) rack, and the incredible 75 custom maxi cruising yacht," the more i wanted to hoof-kick in his pretty boy face!
doesn't he know how hard it is for t-shirt wearing, investment banking centaur to get dates with identical twins? i've worked at Untimely Withdrawl Investments Bank for thriteen years and i've never been invited to stay at the "cottage." pretentious mother fuckers! what cottage has three floors, 50 rooms, 25 full bathrooms, an indoor pool, and several coke troughs for your snorting convenience?! fucks! i've never been out on the boat. i bring in tons of dough! i'm a client pleaser, a favorite even! hell, i even let the cfo of a major japanese corporation ride me around his office! i want what's comming to me!
you know what it is? the precious old boys club doesn't want an ole smelly t-shrited centaur hoofin' around the dump; wouldn't want mr.quadraped precipitating the depreciation of UWIB's fancy cottage. sure, the centaur's good enough to trot around for the curious but not good enough to set up with some big dollar corporate prostitutes! "you're too big" they say, "it's creepy" they say, well, you don't think i dream of having a nice human skinned ass? oh, i'd love to get sunburned on my legs and ass but i can't! i have a horses body! why can't people just accept me for who i am! although, don't get me wrong, i love my wang. it is truly a magnificient wang, but still...the biggest wang in the land isn't gonna make the ladies anymore comfortable with the tail. what's tshirted centaur to do? seriously, i have needs! i'm tired of jerking off to freaky friday and herby the love bug reloaded. plus, do you know how hard it is for a centaur to jerk off? do yoou know how flexible i have to be?

blah. nobody cares about the trials and tribulations of an old mytholgoical creature anymore - unless you're a fucking unicorn! then everybody's all fucking excited; from the ironic lovers of unicorns to the sincere (read: creepy) lovers of unicorns. put a man's body on a horse, you've got an undesirable investment banker but put a fucking horn on a regualr godamn horse and you've created a universally loved symbol. i fucking hate unicorns (in the sincerest possible way). Bunch of fucking racists, you never see a black unicorn do you? i wonder if i'd get more respect if my backside was white? could it be they just don't like a latino half-man attached to a black/brown horse? if i were a latino half-man attached to a white horse would i get more respect? who knows? i'll tell you one thing for sure, if i was a white half-man attached to a white horse with a white horn attached to my forehead, i'd be up at that fucking cottage guaranteed. fucking racist speciesist bastards.

in other news, i just heard that hilary swank is single. sweet. i've had a crush on her evers since i met her on the set of the power rangers (i had a bit role as scientist #1). i was saddened to hear about her ex's substance abuse problem; get better chad! you can do it buddy!
i've also heard that eating a loaf of zucchine bread a day can reduce the visible sings of ageing up to 90%! wow! so get out there and buy up as much zucchinni as you can folks!
anyway, i'd better get back to work. these mergers aren't going to conduct themselves.
t-shirted centaur

hooves all a flutter

well, what can i say? i'm just happy to be indoors. see, as a centaur, my presence tends to attract ner-do-wells who plague me with questions like, "T-shirted centaur, are you really a t-shirted centaur? T-shirted centaur, would you rather fuck a unicorn or that girl from metric? t-shirted centaur, did you take a dump on my front lawn?" uggg! why can't you bipeds just leave me be?
It's not you, i'm sorry, it's just that you don't know what it's like being a t-shirted, mythological creature from attic grece. people always judging you, trying to feed you apples or sugar cubes - i'm a diabetic for christ's sake! I don't even try to buy shoes anymore. "oh, i'm sorry ... sir(?), newbalance doesn't make shoes for centaurs. maybe you could see a blacksmith or something." as if horse shoes and centaur shoes are the same thing (ok, they're exactly the same but it's the principle of the thing).
i don't even want a pair of runners per se, i just want to be granted entry into the mongolian grill restaurant - why do you think i'm wearing a t-shirt? "no shirt, no shoes, no service" might as well read "drity, smelly centaurs can go fuck themselves because they 'aint getting into this mongolian grill" I'm wearing a shirt! I'm wearing shoes! i guess my St.Croix Forge shoes aren't classy enough to watch a couple of pimply teenagers fry up some squid and bean sprouts on a huge hot-plate! the sign doesn't say shit about pants!
sorry, i tend to get carried away. it's hard, you know. it's almost impossible to meet women at bars because i spend more time trying to keep the drunks from riding me than i do running my game. i tried to pick up women at school but the only girls that are interested are the ones with an unhealthy affinity for peter schaffer's equis; i'm not going to debase myself, to allow someone to fetishize me. i'm a centaur, yes, but i'm also an avid stamp collector, r.c. boat enthusiast, and member of my church choir (best soprano we've got!).
well, i guess i'd better sign off. i've got a test tomorrow on nietzsche's beyond good and evil. i know the material but i think the prof's got something against centaurs. id didn't help matters much when he busted his wife checking out my package. look, i'm a centaur, it's gonna hang a little low. what can i do?
till next time
t-shirted centaur