Tom Oatmeal

A Blog About Intercourse from a guy who doesn't get nervous about intercourse like his friend Ricky does.

94 notes

It’s mainly cars around here anymore, but sometimes you get bikes when the cars break down and when the bikes break down you get those little sticks with a horse head on them.
I’ve seen people get so adept at riding them that by the time their cars and bikes get fixed, it almost seems foolish to transition back to the old modes of transportation and risk what could be a really bright future as a stick horse rider.
So they let the universe decide the fate of the horse. Or so they say. Because what they do next is rig the game so that the stick horse stands virtually no chance of survival! They run him through rough foliage and busy intersections. They ride more carelessly to their destinations and, upon arrival, they “forget” to tie it up at the bike rack. 
It’s only a matter of time before the stick horse is stolen, forcing the people back to the safety of their cars and bikes. Back to the grind. 
A week or so later, at a stoplight, they peer out the window and see a vagrant enjoying a fire made from igniting a pile of stick horse sticks. The vagrant cackles and combs his fingers through the wig he fashioned out of the stick horse’s yarn hair.
Next to him lies what remains of the deconstructed stick horse: His fabric head; a purse now for the vagrant’s street findings.

It’s mainly cars around here anymore, but sometimes you get bikes when the cars break down and when the bikes break down you get those little sticks with a horse head on them.

I’ve seen people get so adept at riding them that by the time their cars and bikes get fixed, it almost seems foolish to transition back to the old modes of transportation and risk what could be a really bright future as a stick horse rider.

So they let the universe decide the fate of the horse. Or so they say. Because what they do next is rig the game so that the stick horse stands virtually no chance of survival! They run him through rough foliage and busy intersections. They ride more carelessly to their destinations and, upon arrival, they “forget” to tie it up at the bike rack.

It’s only a matter of time before the stick horse is stolen, forcing the people back to the safety of their cars and bikes. Back to the grind.

A week or so later, at a stoplight, they peer out the window and see a vagrant enjoying a fire made from igniting a pile of stick horse sticks. The vagrant cackles and combs his fingers through the wig he fashioned out of the stick horse’s yarn hair.

Next to him lies what remains of the deconstructed stick horse: His fabric head; a purse now for the vagrant’s street findings.

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