Barbaro Died For Your Sins

I can only hope that I am remembered in death as fondly as Barbaro, last year's Kentucky Derby winner whose broken leg turned into one of those inexplicable media events where the mechanics of making casts for tiny horse ankles were discussed with a straight face on several legitimate news programs.

Barbaro's fan club is more vast than you can imagine and wields considerable clout:

So far, they've raised more than $250,000 and saved more than 580 horses from slaughter. They've turned their sights on federal horse slaughter laws, burning up the phone lines. Their fervor can be mistaken for the handiwork of professional political operatives. One congressional aide, after yet another call, finally asked: Who is funding you? Who is organizing you? Who are you people?

A thoroughbred racing lobby? As if politicians weren't busy enough. I shouldn't worry, though. It's not like our government is set up to reward the nagging persistence and media blackmail of absurd pressure groups.

Plus, the Fans of Barbaro (who identify themselves with the unfortunate acronym "FOB") are regular, everyday, salt-of-the-earth people who can apparently read the minds of horses at will:

A tiny woman with graying blond hair and green corduroy pants rides on the screeching, rumbling Brooklyn-bound B train. Her name is Martita Goshen and she's a world-renown ballet dancer. Now, she's a FOB.

"Barbaro was in many dimensions," she says. "He looked at the whole picture. That's why he had that stumble at the Derby. He was ahead of the moment. The Zen of that. That's dancing. For the rest of my life, I'll be working to move with that innocence."

I think I finally understand the fuss now. It's simple American math.

1 American life = 5 European lives, 15 Asian lives, or 300 African lives
1 American horse's life = 1 American life, or 10 random poor people
1 missing white girl = 1 Barbaro

The Church of Barbaro [E-Ticket]