While I don't have a strong bias towards any one particular horse breed, the humble Clydesdale is one that I hold a great deal of respect for, and that's not just because it looks like it could pummel me into a long pig patty if it really wanted to. No, you see, the Clydesdale does not concern itself with such base acts of violence. Also, if I really did something to deserve getting my shit kicked in, I don't think it'd bother with more than just a hefty kick to the cranium before dismissing me entirely. That doesn't sound nearly as imposing, though. Anyway. In terms of stoicism, its temperament is bested by few, if any. That's not to say it acts entirely aloof. Rather, it simply trots along the steady course of life with nary a whinny snorted in complaint. They're even said to be downright friendly, and I suppose that kind of nonchalance lends credence to a more easy-going personality, but if I was forced to bust my ass day in day out hauling carriages and tilling fields and whatnot for the rest of my equine life, I'd be more than a little pissed about it. But I'm not a horse, as unfortunate as that fact is, so what do I know. As Socrates, the great philosophical guru himself once said, the only thing that I know is that I know nothing. Of the inner-workings of a horse's mind beyond our own hubristic speculation, I do, in fact, know jack shit. But in spite of the above quote typed out not even two sentences prior, what I can confidently say that I know is that they're some handsome motherfuckers. They're not as striking as the Irish Cob or the Friesian, sure, except that comparing them to the 10/10s of the horse world is a little unfair, don't you think? They're like, a solid eight. That's not bad. Not all of us can be a Johnathan Bailey equivalent, alright? Cut 'em some slack. In lieu of that, they're basically the Platonic ideal of a draft horse. The poster child for them, I'd say. If you try to picture one and your first thought isn't one of these bad boys, I'm calling you out on your bullshit immediately. Unless it's a Shire or something, in which case, fair. But only if you're European. Or a troll, even though that should be self-evident. The Budweiser Clydesdales didn't star in all those advertising campaigns just for their kin to go unrecognized by the disgraces of this world who would call themselves self-respecting American citizens. Now put your respect on this horse, 'cause it damn well deserves it. And on that note, I'm ending this chitt here. It doesn't need to get any longer, and I'm more than certain that none of you actually managed to read this far in the first place.
8=l < There aren't enough like buttons for this
Finally some good fucking equine appreciation up in here. Even if you cannot let yourself grasp to understand them, you sure as hell can talk the talk and walk the trot. Or whatever would be the most clever thing to say here for commentary's sake, coming from one of the bastards out there to be ever so graced with as close to the idea of being one of these beaus in real time. An honorable choice to put respect on, considering these juggernauts of pure horsepower got themselves so highly recognized to have steel monuments made after the breed in Scotland. Technically it's more or less based off of the myth of Kelpies, as that is also what the statues are called, but still. Pretty damn respectable.
I was going to say something suitably witty, as is our default response to just about anything ever, but then I reread your first paragraph. What the fuck do you mean you're "close to the idea of being one of those beaus"? Don't answer that. Rhetorical goddamn question. I can't believe the universe plays favorites.
Yeah. You read those words exactly right. Not every day do you see somebody of this caliber get hit with a deus ex machina so hard it literally is a gift from god. A word of advice: Talk to some friendly wizards or witches who will do anything for "the bit." And you just might end up lucky yourself.
Oh, fuck off. There's no way that's how you actually got the life of our dreams. I reject that reality entirely.
And sometimes it's a motherfucking Christmas miracle. Alas, I suppose that can only happen to very few of us at a time.