Upon the realization that we were nearing the end of a short and uneventful summer, my girlfriends and I decided a ladies’ trip to the Hamptons was in order. Luckily, my friend Roxy’s parents have a place there, so we made a last-minute decision to pile on the train and head east for the weekend.
We arrived last Friday as the remnants of Tropical Storm Danny made for a gray afternoon of sipping what were perhaps the worst Long Island iced teas of our lives, which were ordered because we felt it was what rich people did when they arrived in rich-people land. All in all, it was a rather uneventful and relaxing evening that saw us turning in relatively early.
The next morning we woke up late, borrowed Roxy’s dad’s car, and paid a visit to a Himalayan crystal store where they sold those yuppie salt crystals that are supposed to give you good luck and clean your biorhythm and make you have babies with large genitals or something like that. The creepy, flamboyant employee elaborated on how they are a source of vitamins if you lick them like some misguided cow.
After being sufficiently creeped out, we left the store and headed out of Sag Harbor to Montauk. We came around a corner shortly after our departure and all of us started screaming--off to the side of the rode we spotted a miniature Arabian pony who had escaped from its home and was wandering about aimlessly! We hopped out and delicately approached the pony so as not to scare it away. It was a nice pony (as all ponies are) and we stopped for a few minutes to take some photos with it before deciding how we were going to transport the tiny equine to its rightful home.
A few minutes later a woman pulled over in an attempt to help us and came barreling out of the car in a prissy little raincoat, her dog following, running into traffic. After tearing through the middle of the road with her arms flailing, she joined our pony party. It turned out her definition of “helping” was semi-panicking, asking a bunch of questions we didn’t know the answers to, and generally being a giant pain in the ass. Once she felt she'd sufficiently bothered us, the lady got into her car to get more “help” and we never saw her again.
Our next course of action was to run to the closest house and watch the people inside ignore our frantic knocking. They were apparently too busy watching television and inserting digits into their assholes to assist us in our pony-saving adventure. (Thanks a lot, fuckfaces!)
Back at the scene of the pony a wide-eyed cop showed up. He was much more friendly than most police officers we’ve encountered. He said something into his radio, and less than a minute later a lady who was introduced to us as the owner of the pony appeared.
We were thanked for saving the pony, who we now know as Botchi. We kissed our little friend goodbye. Kay’s eyes were watering, but it wasn’t from sadness. She was majorly allergic to Botchi. All that was left to do was hop back in the car and continue toward Montauk covered in pony hair. We miss you, Botchi.