Robert Robus rides a horse

I, Robert Robus, am here at the old ranch--which, incidentally, belongs to my country friend Hayseed McGee--and, Jove, do I feel like riding a horse! For horses, in addition to being rather pleasant animals who rather infrequently gnaw at one's beard (should one be in possession of said facial accoutrement) or spit in one's face (should one be in possession of the latter feature), are perfect for cybercomedians who wish to pahss themselves off as English gentlemen. And now, my boy, we shall go a-hunting, isn't that right, boy?

Horse flares its nostrils.

I thought so. Now, by my watch, Tartar should be arriving at the old ranch any minute now; and as soon as he arrives, and as soon as my country friend Hayseed McGee issues a horse to he, we shall be off to bag many a pheasant! Now, Hayseed, what did you say this creature's moniker was decreed to be? Harrison? Well, very well, Harrison...read any good books lately? Ha ha. While I am sure, good equine Harrison, that your IQ is quite lofty--for a horse!--I seriously doubt that you could reach such a plenary degree of comprehension of Kant's A Critique of Pure Reason as that of which I, Robert Robus, can not disingenuously deem myself capable. Can you? Huh? Can you? Oh, that's right, I forgot--you are completely illiterate! Why, you probably don't even know what philosophy is! In fact and verily, all one can with any hope of accuracy infer about your lifestyle comprises eating grass and running around.

Horse takes out a copy of Sartre's Being and Nothingness, a smug expression plastered across his visage. Robus faints. Tartar arrives in 1992 Rolls-Royce Corniche sedan, is all: 'What the hell happened here?' Hayseed McGee gives the signal. Two men--one of whom is Stephen Hawking--climb out of the horse suit. They high-five McGee.