Dearly beloved (and Fran):
We are gathered here today to celebrate the life of a man who, quite frankly, was not really a man at all. He was a horse. He also was not a living horse. Today marks the umpteeth anniversary of our favorite dead horse, who has given us far more pleasure in death than he ever did in life. This is not the same horse who happily trotted the very acres of Fran's endless daisy-spotted farmland. And this horse is hardly similar to the horse who once sneezed on Agnes' youngest daughter after she had accidentally puked Cheerios into the horse's unkempt mane and everybody laughed because they were both babies and it is quite laughable when babies do things that only babies are keen on doing. No, friends. This is a horse who knew all too well the beatings that life can hand you, sometimes with sticks and sometimes with very large sticks. For Lord Jesus knows what reason, It has always seemed right. You shouldn't kick a man when he's down. You should ravage that man, limb from limb, and use each appendage to bludgeon your favorite dead horse, who in this case is the horse we are speaking of.
The man that stands before you now, cloaked in the darkest of dark formal attire, has a confession to offer. I, admittedly for too long, have encouraged the beating of one such dead horse. And felt nothing. No guilt or regret has ever graced my conscience with its presence. I haven't even asked myself any sort of question, like "Isn't is kind of savage to continually and forcefully beat the living shit out of a defenseless animal?" No. I just beat. And laugh. And beat some more. Well, it ends today. It ends now. It ends, meine freunde, with us...
(TO BE CONTINUED)
