Saturday, April 27, 2013

RA$HA...Finally, An Association for Rich Farriers!

The Anvil Archives: Rob Edwards, Publisher Extraordinaire

RA$HA [The Rich And Scientific Horseshoers Association]

© Andy Juell

First published in ANVIL Magazine (Mid-80's) 

Well, I have had quite enough. First it was the AFA, then the WSFA, then FAWS, then Walt Taylor's WFA and pretty soon the Interplanetary FA, just in case someone is stupid enough to want to shoe horses on Venus.  So I am going to add RA$HA to the ever-growing list of farriers' groups, as not only is it a cute name for a small dog, but it will also fill the one last void in American horseshoeing: the rich guys.  Here is a rundown on our rules, ideology, contests, membership requirements, and drinking habits.
RASHA President and Certification Enforcer.
"We got oil!"

The association was formed last week for no apparent reason. In light of that, our board of directors (who wish to remain anonymous, particularly in the Islamic world), still felt that there was no association in the world to represent rich people; who, by some accident of birth, ended up as horseshoers. By filling this void, it is hoped that people like Jay Leno will invite us to be on their TV shows and ask us irrelevant questions about life or Brad Pitt's last movie. 


The International Association of Rich and Scientific Horseshoers will have strict membership requirements.  Well, most of the time anyway.

1.  Applicant must be rich. Proof of richness should be mailed in small bills to: Association Secretary,  P.O. Box 5, Tijuana, Mexico.
2.  Applicant should show some degree of scientific ability. This may be ascertained by a), straightening a bent pritchel, b), operating a small electric drill, or c), giving a brief verbal explanation of what pine tar tastes like. 
3.  Applicant must be able to accurately distinguish a five-dollar tip from a one-hundred dollar tip and be able to react to a small tip with the proper hostility.
4.  Applicant must pass the National Flinch Test.


"If you get paid, don't worry about it."


"Get the check."

OUR MISSION STATEMENT:  E pluribus scrotum and this other stuff:



One of Last Year's Judges
All prospective members of the International Association of Rich and Scientific Horseshoers will be required to take the following examination:  Each applicant will be required to shoe a horse in any chosen manner by that member (hiring someone else to do it is fine), with any materials that the applicant can find.  Upon completion of the aforementioned horse (there will be no time limit), said applicant will present a totally outlandish bill to either (A) George Steinbrenner, (B) a Jewish haberdasher from Brooklyn, or (C) Mike Tyson.  A panel of four judges, drawn at random from a local plumbers' union will decide if, in the course of presenting the bill, the applicant either flinches, bats an eye, becomes embarrassed, or God forbid, adjusts the bill in the client's favor. There will be a five-minute time limit (65 seconds if applicant draws Mike Tyson for the exam), in which the testers may say or do anything short of a Class B felony to the applicant.  Those individuals found to have failed the test will be required to pay the association the sum of $125.00 (no checks) and may not reschedule an examination for at least 24 hours, or until the judges sober up, whichever comes first. Those applicants passing the exam will receive $50.00 in cash from each current member, an invitation to join the Republican Party, a year's supply of oakum courtesy of the plumbers' union, a video cassette of the movie True Grit, Donald Trump's cellular number, and a year's subscription to Forbes Magazine.

Once a year, The International Association of Rich and Scientific Horseshoers will hold a competition to determine the championships in our five recognized divisions:  Best Truck, Best Outfit, Most Creative Use of a Cellular Phone, Most Outrageous Promotional Gimmick, and the Overall, All-Around Farrier Czar of the Day, which will be decided upon by the horseshoer exhibiting the absolute laziest way possible to get a few bucks from the audience. 
 Dick Cheney, DpSHT;  Jimmy Hoffa, RIP; and Warren Buffet, $$$$.
In the event of a tie, Mr. Andy Juell, QXTE will NOT cast a deciding vote unless money or a lewd encounter is involved. 
RA$HA Dress Code Rigorously Enforced


CLASS 1:  Best Truck. This class will be open to any vehicle with less than seven axles.  Weight not to exceed 60,000lbs., or overall length of 40 feet.  Contestant may present truck in any acceptable manner.  Please though, no obvious nudity. In the event of a tie, all cigarette butts, candy wrappers, and old donuts will be carefully removed from the cab and weighed.  First Prize: A free triple bypass by the surgeon of your choice, or an all-expenses paid -- two week vacation at a Nevada brothel, or women: 12-hour shopping spree in the Nordstrom's shoe department. On us!

CLASS 2:  Best Outfit.  This is a split-division class.  Female entrants will be judged on poise, confidence, and  their use of shoes and/or accessories.  Chaps are required.  The men's division will be judged on number and quality of tattoo's, overall strength (aluminum can crushing, hammer throwing, etc), and best abs -- enthusiastic audience participation encouraged here.  In both divisions, cross-dressing is discouraged; DNA testing will be mandatory.
  First Prize Women's Division:  Leonardo DiCaprio's phone number.
First Prize Men's Division:  More beer or something made of chrome.
CLASS 3:  Most Creative Use of a Cellular Phone. This is an open class to be judged on the ingenuity of the contestant.  Example:  Last year's winner ear-twitched his favorite trainer with the cord while ordering sushi from the local takeout bar.  First Prize: 500 shares of stock in Verizon, two Super Bowl tickets, and a guest appearance on Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous.  In the event of a tie, the winner will be determined by the balance owing on their American Express Card.

CLASS 4:  Most Outrageous Promotional Gimmick. (Sponsored by the makers of Sorbothane, Hoof Bond, Big Bob's Plastic Pritchel Co., and The Barefoot Alliance.)  This is a thinking man's class, and all contestants will be provided with lounge chairs and a cocktail of their choice.  Deep furrowed brows, smoking ears, and migraine headaches will be given special consideration.  The winner will be established by the first contestant to successfully earn $1,200.00 without getting up from his or her chair.  Lying is optional, with a two-hour time limit for ascertaining the truth.  First Prize: Tammy Faye Baker's face embossed on a belt buckle, $52,000 in legal fees, and a month's stay at the institution of your choice.

OVERALL CHAMPION CZAR PERSON:  The annual champion of The International Association of Rich and Scientific Horseshoers' Annual Contest will be determined by the accumulation of the most points.  In line with the philosophy of the association, the judges have determined that the points may be stolen, embezzled, blackmailed, or bought from other contestants. In the event of a tie, the contestants will be allowed to reach a settlement on their own. However, this class is closed to attorneys, unless they have been recently disbarred and/or jailed.  Prize:  Fourteen feet of cow intestines, a pair of tight jeans, and Wayne Newton's favorite horse.


Annual Membership dues for the International Association of Rich and Scientific Horseshoers will be one dollar. Life memberships are 50 cents, plus 1.5% of all income received from clients by bad, questionable or larcenous means.  Members will be entitled to our monthly newsletter (if we feel like printing it), our special decal (which has a picture of a rich guy running over a Hungarian immigrant), and the knowledge of knowing that they are a member of the world's finest association for Rich and Scientific Horseshoers. 
E = MC (MasterCard Accepted)


Thursday, April 25, 2013

Dating 101...Women with Horses.

Rule # 1:  Skip the Horse Show Altogether
Horseshows are not designed around moments of hopeful intimacy.  They are angst-filled encounters with what lies behind the blue eyes, seductive smile...your own fantasies of an overnight adventure in an exotic land that, well...smells funny. 
The cab of a pick-up truck is entirely too small. So is a ferry boat.  And she's driving:

     'The ferry ride turned out to be a lot longer than I imagined.  No, it wasn’t the tension level.  Seems I failed to examine the geography involved in our expedition.  After an hour or so I was thinking Europe.  After two hours, it was time to have a serious conversation with Columbus.  Even the porpoises that had been following us turned around.  I started rummaging around the truck looking for oranges – figured we might need to fend off dysentery or beriberi or something.  At 2hrs. & 37 minutes we struck land.  The locals seemed curious, but not overly friendly.  I considered sticking a flag in the ground and claiming the place for God and America, but a Denny’s restaurant had beat me to it.  The ferry crew was busy hosing Brownie’s urine and other stuff off the deck.  They gave us a cheery one-fingered send off.  Local custom I guessed.  After a quick greasy hamburger we hit the road again.  Smaller road, fewer inhabitants.
     “Uh, just where exactly is this show?”  I swore I saw a sign that said, ‘Last Gas for a Hundred Miles!’  I was hoping it was just a marketing stunt.
     Three gas stations later we arrived at the show grounds.  Yeah, the sign was a shameless marketing ploy.  I figured that the next time I toured Europe I’d bring my own hamburger.  Between emergency roadside stops Jesse and I talked about the subjects of her choice.  I asked a question and received an answer disguised as another question.  She must have studied counter-intelligence or male interrogation techniques since after two hours in the truck I wasn’t even sure if Jesse was her real name.

      “Why’d you get into horses, Jesse?”  Seemed like a safe question.
     “Wasn’t supposed to.”
     “Me, it was school buses and…some other stuff.”
     “Other stuff?”
     “Yeah, stuff.”
     “Home, huh?”
     “I didn’t say that.”
     “Yes you did.”
[Quick...a deflection!] 
     “Look, are those Canadian geese?”  Wondered what they were doing in Europe.  Next time we stopped I planned on going through her purse.  Probably find fifteen fake passports, the miniature camera – maybe a Walther PPK.  Oh, the official fingernail pulling manual.
     “Have you ever been arrested?”
[Another deflection needed...]
     “Where’d that question come from?”  My eyes were doing the darting thing.  “Wow, see that!  One shoe by the road.  I always see those and they’re always a right shoe.  Makes you wonder what was going on…like roadside amputations by deranged foot collectors or…least they could do is leave a pair or something.”
     “I thought so.”


This is how I pictured a long weekend of possibilities...

Later in my adventure -- horse bath time... 
     “How’d the schooling go?” I asked, knowing full well that Jess had got dumped twice in the schooling ring.
     “He was a little spooky out there.  Didn’t you see him?  He spooked at that yellow oxer and dumped me!”
     “No, I missed that.  I’m sorry.  You okay?”  Of course I didn’t miss it.  That’s why I ended up behind a barn on all fours trying to cough up the Marlboro I sucked down one lung.
     “I’m all right.”
     “Tell me something,” I said, wanting to change the subject before I surrendered to the giggles.  “Why do you do this?  I mean, this doesn’t seem like it goes too well, and like I thought this was supposed to be fun?  You get horribly nervous, the trainer chews you out, the horse dumps you and you hardly ever get a ribbon or money or anything.  How come?”
     Jessica paused, tossing the sponge into the bucket of shampoo.  “I don’t know.  I guess it’s a challenge.  To take something like Brownie, with no training, no manners or anything, and convert him into something usable.”  She tossed her hair out of her eyes so she could stare straight at me.  “I like fixing things.”
     “Oh,” I deadpanned.  I had really hoped she wanted to ride in the Olympics or something.  ‘Fixing things’ tended to make me more than a little nervous.  The last thing that got ‘fixed’ was the cat.  I guess though that it supported my overall opinion that Jesse and Chet had something and nothing in common.  Chet fixing those broken pistons was one thing, but why would a woman sort of pick a man and then try to turn him into some other kind of man?  Why not keep shopping?  “So winning doesn’t matter?”
     “No.  Has to do with a poem I read once.  Something about ‘the value of the journey’ as opposed to the destination -- something like that.  Besides, I can’t afford a horse that wins and it probably wouldn’t be that much fun anyway.  I bought my first horse when I was thirteen.  Couple of hundred bucks.  My father said no…”  She suddenly straightened up, gently tipped the bucket over with her left foot, handed me the horse and walked off.
     “So, Brownie, now what in the hell did I say?”  I thought about just sitting there and waiting, but there was still that issue about not sitting on the chairs.  So instead Brownie and I took a tour of the show grounds.  I did most of the talking.

And this was how it ended up...

     After waiting around to see if the judges gave a ribbon for twenty-third place, we took Brownie back to his stall, bathed him and wrapped his legs in forty-five pounds of cotton and Velcro.  Jessica swallowed a couple of aspirin while I organized what was left of the mess.  I slid into the cab of the truck and put the key in the ignition and turned it.  Zip.  The horse show had taken the last ounce of our dignity.  After spending the early morning hours braiding Brownie’s mane in the one good headlight of the truck, the only thing we earned for our efforts was a dead battery.
      The ferry ride home was cloaked in a noisy silence.
     “So, Jessica, where does this leave things, like with the year-end standings and all?”

      I thought she might have said something but it was just the prop churning the water.  Maybe teeth grinding.
     “Okay then.”