Dearest Barbaro

You were released to that great stable full of hay in the sky no less than a day ago and already I feel as if there is a void in my heart that feels as if it will never heal. You may be gone physically but you will last eternal in our hearts and minds.

You rocketed your way into popularity by winning the Kentucky Derby by a record length. Even, I, who thought that a 6:1 odd on a horse were too much and decided to drop 15 grand on your opponents, was sucked into your chocolaty eyes. Even thought this was the beginning of the end for me, I feel a special kinship with you.

And so, when you were the heavy favorite to win the Preakness and become the next Triple Crown winner, I decided to go all out and bet my lifesavings (minus the 15 grand, remember) a grand total of 20 grand and the 50 singles I keep in my sock drawer in case of late night trips to the strip club. I still held out a glimmer of hope when you burst through the gate in your false start. It looked like my first erection bursting through my jeans during my second week at fat camp. But, alas, all our hopes were shattered along with your hind right leg and you lost the race. Still, no hard feelings you stallion of stallions, even when I lost my girlfriend, house, and my baby’s mamma all because you can’t suck it up and run through the pain.

Later, after we pumped more screws into your leg then The Six Million Dollar Man, I sent you a bushel of apples along with a subscription to Donkey Show Monthly. I knew you appreciated it and if you could have just mastered the English language I am sure that you would have sent me a thank you note instead of the “why-didn’t-you-send-money?” from your owners.

Now, you king of the dirt circle, as we send you to the open arms of horse-Jesus, we commit you to the dirt at Churchill Downs. We do this out of respect, to return you to the dirt you came from. And as you eventually turn into grass, where your replacement will most likely graze on you, remember that you did NOT demean yourself to going to the glue factory.

As I read this I can see your Jockey sitting near your casket, weeping his eyes until they can no longer produce tears I can only think, “Why does anyone aside from me have to cry about?” In reality I came to skin you for your hide to warm me as I sleep underneath an I-64 overpass. Maybe later I can return here and grave rob your skull to pay for a bus ticket somewhere warmer maybe? You cost me the world you bastard. Rot in Donkey Hell.