Ms Boycott Melbourne Cup



Ah Melbourne Cup, the race that hashtags the nation. A day when woodwork-dwelling slacktivists emerge to rekindle their passionate war against horseracing. An issue so dear to Felicia’s heart, she requires an entire year to drop some knowledge on the Volcom-belted beastmasters and fascinator-clad savages that revel in the blood of the Spring Carnival.

Felicia awakens on race day, reborn as a “.org-Veterinarian”. She has read un-extensively about the physical presentations of distressed equines and turns the whip on her followers. Her first order of business is to post to some uncited facts printed across a ghastly image that is about as pleasant as a donkey punch during a prostate exam:

“Horseracing is a death sentence for horses. Boycott the Melbourne Cup and make sure there is no blood on your hands! #fuckhorseracing #horseracingkills #nuptothecup #animalcruelty #nobloodonmyhands #voiceforthevoiceless #boycottmelbournecup”.

God, she has just given herself a leg shaking-ly intense care-gasm. Next, She finds a photo of a bloodied-nosed horse that looks strikingly similar to Sarah Jessica Parker on a savage coke-bender:

“Each whip causes a horse's arterial influx to capacitate at 145% above normal flux!!! 145%!!! The capillaries literally explode and millions of mycobia are released into the stallion’s phemal gland causing catastrophic motor neuron deficiency, but all we see is a bloody nose #science #notjustaboutgettingdrunk #haveapuntonhumanity #barbarians #trainersarescum #fucktomwaterhouse”.

If each click ‘n’ share skidmark that gets smeared across social media, kills a serious activist-fairy, then Felicia’s last post caused a fucking genocide. Not that Felicia gives a shit, she believes that truth can yield to shock value when one raises awareness about a righteous cause.

In fact, the task of raising awareness is so massive she doesn’t have a single minute to dedicate to the industry’s point of view. She simply dismisses their arguments as being motivated by the race day glory of a squeaky voiced man joyfully crying into a cup full of money.

At her work luncheon, Felicia turns down a serving of strawberries and cream and stares at people like a horse may stare at a hungry Frenchman. She stands next to the sweepstakes sheet and berates her co-workers for gambling on the inevitable bloodbath that follows.

To be fair, she starts making some decent points about the role gambling has played in the seedy underbelly of inhumanity in the industry. The air is thick with reasoned argument, until she gunt-fucks the conversation with some PETA-esque cuntery, “trainers just see slow horses as ‘wasteage’, they are just itching to kill them to save their investments”. Oh.

Anyway you look at it, Melbourne Cup is about fashion, whether that be a fancy dress or the hottest hashtag of the day. Tomorrow, Felicia’s faux-campaign will lay discarded like the champagne-soaked frocks that did little to hide the shame of a public fingering in a tacky marquee.


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