Velociworld

The Mule as Metaphor (for all my ills)

I hate a damned mule. As Faulkner said, and I paraphrase loosely, they will toil for you unceasingly for years for the opportunity to kick you in the knees once. Something like that.

Mules are bastard animals. The criminal offspring of horses and donkeys. They are sterile as a result, and I thought they were always male, but we had one named Myrtle. She was a lazy, shiftless beast, whose only passion was for my mother's Chesterfield cigarettes. I spent many an afternoon feeding those pups to Myrtle. That mule could eat some fucking cigarettes.

Mules are stupid, too. They are created for the purposes of plowing, and draying folks in wagons, which we all know don't exist anymore, but the mule doesn't know that. But they act stupid anyhoo.

I never got that mule to do a damned thing. Work, tricks, hossy rides, that mule was worthless. She disappeared one day, and I'm pretty confident she became suppah. I ate stange meat back then, although I am convinced our white German Shepherd Rex never attained the menu. Even the Senator wouldn't go there.

But he cold bloodedly killed the errant goats, assassinated them, and Myrtle disappeared. So you never know. I may have even eaten that recalcitrant fucktard Shetland pony name of Spooky.

Make spaghetti, he would always say. I think I know why.