A Pooping Horse

Flying back from Florida, I didn’t realize that my layover was in Cincinnati. I discovered it when registering for the flight and didn’t think too hard about it until we landed. Walking up the jet way, I realized I could see my breath.

“I can see my breath!” I exclaimed to a group of strangers pulling their suitcases next to me. They looked like me like, “Where do you think you are? Florida?”

The trouble was I didn’t know much about Cincinnati or Northern Kentucky. My only association with Kentucky was Jim Beam.

The layover was an hour, and ventured into the warmth of the airport in search of coffee and fried chicken, because nothing makes you feel better about just about anything than piping hot fried chicken.

Then in the window of a souvenir store I saw a women’s sleeping t-shirt with a pink horse and handcuffs on it and a tagline “Fifty Shades of Hay.”

This was when I was seriously sorry that my phone had died.

Inside, they had masterpieces like a pair of boxers with “horsepower” across the front. T-shirts with a slouching cowboy and a responsible-looking dog on a horse and a tagline “Designated Driver.”  In the food dept., there were mint jelly and bourbon-flavored pancake mix.

I brought a glass jar of blackberry syrup to the checkout and as the lady in what looked like a sari was checking me out, she asked,

“Do you need a pooping horse?”

What do you tell a person who obviously think you’re in need of a pooping horse? I was taken aback.

To help me make an educated decision, she took a keychain with a horse from a plastic jar and squeezed the horse. A piece of brown poop made its way out. The lady let go, and the poop got sucked back in. She did that a couple of times, just to make sure I got the idea, delighted with the horse’s stellar performance.

I passed.

But was fully awake now and not in need of fried chicken anymore.

At least I didn’t come across the chocolate version of Kentucky Horse Poop.


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