Everybody has a type. For me, it’s redheads. I love the way their vibrant hair waves about like they’re walking around with their heads on fire.
One night at a club where a lot of redheads go (I can’t reveal the name, because you might try to move in on my action) I sat down at the bar beside a fiery-haired beauty, ordered her a cosmo with extra grenadine, and as I gazed over her freckled face into her luscious locks I knew she was the one.
On our first date, we drove to Red River Street and shared some Red Stripe while reading articles from Red! Magazine to each other. I never knew that articles about communism could be so hot.
But, alas, she has a type too. After a few dates, she left me in the gutter. Apparently I wasn’t her type – because I didn’t have the lower body of a horse.
I guess I like redheads, but she likes centaurs.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I know it’s not easy being a centaur in Austin. There’s gay bars, straight bars, hipster bars, and even unicorn bars, but there aren’t really any centaur bars. You know why, though? They tried to make one once, just off of Sixth – called it Taur Bar – but it didn’t work because the horse-bodies had no bladder control and pissed all over the barstools.
Pretty much the only job a centaur can get in Austin is giving drunk people rides around downtown at night. Call it class discrimination if you will, but I don’t see anything wrong with it. Let them shatter their own damn glass stable.
Police violence against centaurs is at an all-time high. Just last week I saw them bait one into a busy intersection by dangling a carrot above a stoplight.
But despite all of that, I don’t see why my girl would leave me for one of those freaks. I asked my friend if it was because I have the body of a goat, and he told me that white girls were way into satyrs these days.
So her loss, I say. If she wants to run off with a freak centaur, let her. But if she thinks she’s getting a bite of my snow tire tonight, then she’s got another thing coming.