Saturday, April 23, 2005

I Might Have Killed a Nun, But You Raped a Horse

No, Todd, you listen.

Yeah, I might have killed a nun. I can admit that. I’m not proud of it, but what’s done is done.

But you, my rapidly-fading memory of a friend: You raped a horse.

What do you mean, “How is raping a horse worse than brutally murdering a nun?” Well, let me tell you.

I understand, at first blush, the killing of an innocent human being might seem worse than the vigorous invasion of a domesticated ungulate, but let’s dig a little deeper, shall we?

I can find any number of rhetorical positions to defend my nun-stabbing, and though they would still leave me—in the eyes of society—to be morally reprehensible, cold reason would prevail in my defense. I would be looked upon as a criminal, surely, but not as a gibbering sexual deviant.

What that’s, Todd? You’re saying if I can name one instance—quote one reputable source—that defends my position, you’ll come out of hiding and turn yourself in? Alright. Fine.

If I may quote the brilliant, American intellectual, Henry James—no stranger himself to complex moral entanglements—who wrote of his friend George Bingham, a man not unlike myself: “To kill a human being is, after all, the least injury you can do him.”

How is my situation any different from that, Todd? That’s right. It’s not. From what I can tell, according to a famous American writer—who’s sure as shit a whole lot smarter than either of us—I did that nun a favor.

You, on the other perverted hand, drove all the way to Saratoga with the sole intention of breaking into private property and rapaciously despoiling a prized race horse. Not because you had any good moral reason to do so—no! But because you lost $25 dollars on a lousy quinella. Yeah, it does sound a little crazy coming out of someone else’s mouth, doesn’t it, you asshole?

No, Todd; you know what: fuck you and the horse you rode in on.

And probably raped.


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