Ungrateful Racehorse

There was once an amazing racehorse such as had never before been in the history of horse racing. This horse won more races at an earlier age than any horse anyone could remember. People flocked to see him run, and the moribund, boring old sport of horse racing began to generate unprecedented interest, not to mention a great deal of principal.

One day, the racehorse won another race, and all the media and the adoring fans swarmed around him, eager to get the best pictures, or even a glance at the adored object. The horse's owner was standing by his side, beaming, glad-handing, and riffing off quotable quotes. The horse, for his part, was chewing amiably on a mouthful of oats and gazing equinely on his many admirers. Then he farted.

There was a gasp!

There was a stunned silence!

The owner, quelled in mid-quip, drew a pistol and shot the horse dead on the spot.

There were cheers and applause!

With the exception of one idiot in the crowd.

"Why did you do that?" asked the idiot.

"Didn't you hear?" gasped the owner.

"Didn't you smell?" cried the fans.

"Uh, sure," prattled the idiot. "He ripped one off, as horses do. And people, too."

Renewed gasps! Fainting!

"That is absolutely unacceptable behavior!" scolded the owner. "It's not why people came to see the racehorse!"

"Well, no, of course not," the idiot blundered on. "We came to see him do what he does -- er, did -- better than any other horse we've ever seen. And that's what we saw. And good luck finding another horse even half as good."

"But he's -- was -- a phony!" cried a fan. "A hypocrite!"

"How do you figure?" asked the idiot, obtusely. "He is -- was -- a racehorse. He raced. That's what he did. He didn't claim not to be a racehorse and then ... Ah, ha! suddenly jumped in and beat everyone else. He didn't claim to be a racehorse and then not be one."

"But he wasn't supposed to fart!" insisted a fan. "That's not what we expected of him!"

"Putting aside, for a moment, whether a horse farting is a capital offense, or any kind of offense at all," said the idiot, "what effing business is it of yours?"

"You don't get it, do you?" growled a fan. "When someone is extremely good at something - anything - we expect them to be perfect at everything."

"That's idiotic," said the idiot. "And I'm the idiot in this piece, so I ought to know."

""We built a religion around that racehorse," griped a fan. "The Cult of the Racehorse. If he farts in public, that's like God farting in public!"

"But you know," said the idiot, "these ridiculous expectations are all yours. All the racehorse did was run magnificently. He never asked for your worship or signed on to meet your expectations."

"Oh, no!" snarled the fans. "He doesn't get off that easy!"

"Well, he didn't get off that easy," the idiot reminded them.

"Don't interrupt!" snarled the fans further. "The racehorse profited from our idiotic adoration-unreasonable expectation complex, so he had to pay for disappointing us!"

"Seems to me," babbled the idiot, "that he profited from winning all those races, due to his incredible gifts, and the rest is all horse shit. Your horse shit."

So they killed the idiot, too. Some people just don't get it.