A few days ago, I pulled on my cowboy boots, snapped up my Western shirt and arrived at a horse-riding stable at the crack of dawn. The sky was already blushing as I kicked through the dust toward the barn with coffee in hand.

"Anybody here?" I called. I heard noise around the back of the barn.

I expected to find some leathery dude with Old West teeth and a goiter the size of a birthday cake, saddling up a swayback. Instead, I was greeted by two hot girls full of smiles and eye twinkles, saddling our horses.

"Hello, Gordon. Glad you'll be riding with us today," said Bethany.

"You'll be riding Jupiter. He is a great horse," Claire said.

"Will it just be the three of us?" I asked hopefully. Jupiter eyed me suspiciously.

"Yes," Claire said. "We had a group cancel at the last minute." I had visions of a creek-side picnic capped with wine and experimental lovemaking.

We mounted up and headed for the trail. Bethany led the way on a sorrel mare. I followed behind on Jupiter, and Claire brought up the rear on her big draft horse. We wound through the beautiful woods down to the bottom lands by the lake.

Jupiter did not like carrying me. In fact, he attempted suicide on at least three occasions. One incident could have been attributed to poor footing on difficult terrain, but the others were more convincing. (A Glock taped to his hoof rose to his temple and misfired twice.)

Sensing I was getting to the good part in my fantasy about Bethany and Claire, Jupiter took decisive action and passed a record-setting amount of gas. He glanced back at me and sheepishly smiled. I was so startled by the violence of his explosion that I didn't have time to organize a courtesy cough.

Bethany looked back at me.

"I swear it was ..." I began.

Then Claire's horse fired off. "What the ...?" I said, as I turned around toward the source of that tuba blast. Claire was smiling.

Just as I turned back toward the front, I saw a waterfall of Shrek-colored meatballs falling from the root of an arched horse tail. The vision was so scarring. The horrible dilation. The prodigious amount.

"Bethany, can we go back now?"

"But I brought stuff for a picnic," she said.

"Please!" I screamed.

Never go horseback riding with a hot girl. The equine digestive tract is a severe mood killer.

Hear Gordon on "The Ticket" KTCK-AM (1310) weekdays from 5:30 to 10 a.m. E-mail him at gordon@gordonkeith.com.

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