Pal-O-Mine

Given the photographic evidence, I won’t deny that Pal-O-Mine gave me a few decent rides. (More than I can say about an ex-wife.) Begrudgingly, but we rode. That was 67 years ago. Coincidentally, that’s exactly the number of years I’ve given him a FREE ride. He's a freeloader, I’m his enabler. Everyone can get a job if they really want one bad enough. He should have been running track or working a stable for tips all these years. Hell, there’s always plow and cart work in rural America.

But this nag has a “Born To Lose” tattoo on his inner flank. I’m thinking: “Ain’t it the truth!”

Don’t ask me what I was doing around his inner flank.

See that rubber Panda in my right hand? It blasted toots out of a round metal ass-horn grommet in his bottom whenever I squeezed him, usually pointing the Panda gas directly at my nose. The rubber smell was chemical and foreign. I liked that.

Trauma unfolded later the same day that this picture was taken. We visited a family Mom knew whose son was having a birthday party, so Mom gave him my Panda. I had gotten that little fart factory two days prior for my own birthday and I definitely didn’t want to give him away. I thought “Happy Birthday, go fuck yourself.” would be a more appropriate present for some kid I didn’t even know. I was only four years old and had yet to acquire weapons that could put a quick stop to that kind of foolishness.

Am I’m still bitter about something that may seem so insignificant to well-adjusted people? I mean, that happened 67 years ago. Am I still pissed at my mother for giving my Panda to a stranger I’ve learned to resent deeply all these years?

Why yes, thank you for asking. I am.