It’s been a while since I exposed a mythical creature. And although I’d like to share reasons for my absence from the truth-train, I’m afraid the consequences of such information would be catastrophic—detrimental to the cause!
Still, I come armed with information of a little-understood wonder:
I bear news of their secretive, and somewhat tragic (yet humbling), rise and fall.
Ever since Zeus and Hera had their first tiff, these half-man half-horse heroes have been trotting the plains of the earth.
If you feel inclined to scrawl through ancient texts, don’t bother trying to find ‘Centaur’ as a reference point. It’ll only get you so far. If you’d like t to know more, try looking up Quattuar Predibus Cervus Bubulcus instead. Or, as we-in-the-know understand the translation to mean: Four-Legged Cervix Smasher.
I know, I know, whoever named centaurs should have their mouth and mind scrubbed with bleach. But before you declare said person as a gutter-dwelling degenerate, it’s important to remember that context is key.
When Zeus created centaurs, he managed to forge both sexes. The fine fillies were proud, smart, and resourceful… maybe a little testy at times. But, cross a man with a big-balled-beast, and what do you get?
Rather than get poked in the uterus by their annoying lust-filled monkey-minded moron counterparts, female centaurs developed an effective method to deter their amorous pursuers: a swift, sharp back-kick to the gonads.
Male centaurs didn’t need to be told twice. Rejection was irrefutable, final and excruciating.
As female centaurs slipped into a quiet and sedate peaceful-life—never to be seen again—the male centaurs struck out into the big wide world to find themselves… to carve a path that didn’t end with their nether-regions the size of watermelons.
Pride in tatters, spurred from female contact, and with a constant raging horn, centaurs were primed for one thing: fighting.
Able to take a wallop to the walnuts and not give up, they quickly earned warrior status—with their flowing locks and chiselled features, embellished stories of their tenacity and resilience were embedded into fantasy, legend, and myth. They quickly became the quintessential essence of right over wrong.
But nothing lasts forever.
Being scrotum-steered studs with a need to be wanted, they deviated onto a career path paved with potholes.
The shear perfection of centaur abs, coupled with their long silky tresses, turned them into an overnight success during the nineteen-eighties. Sought after for their upper-body brilliance—their wind-blustered, tanned image could be found in every bookshop, newsagents, and on Mothers’ nightstands across the globe.
That’s right, these heartthrob hunks cantered from one genre of fantasy into another. They became cover models for eighties romance novels.
But when the gold-rush for Fabio-esque images dried-up in the late nineteen-nineties, so did the centaurs’ popularity. With no battles to fight, and few skills to fall back on, they were forced to find work elsewhere.
That’s when it got a little dark—when they started to pose for magazines that objectified them for their hoof and hocks…
When they started to model for ‘Horse Weekly’ and ‘Pretty Ponies.’
Full-page spreads of them galloping through open fields was one thing. But when they were made to wear the latest in saddle fashion as stocky, ruddy-faced human riders patted them on the rump?
They finally broke.
Centaurs shied in their droves, headed back into the wilderness, and disappeared into obscurity.
It is suspected that they found their female counterparts in the hills, far away from human habitation. But with the lessons they’d learned, their giant-genitaled womb whacking days were over.
If you venture into the wilderness, close your eyes and listen carefully, you can sometimes hear the distant mating-call of a male centaur.
Sometimes, if you’re lucky, you’ll hear a contented, well-rehearsed reply… “Not tonight, love. I’ve got a headache.”