His name was Barbaro. He was a horse, of course.

And, just in case you don't get it, there are about 1,000 idiotic, cliche-infested writers who will be happy to tell you why "we" mourn Barbaro's passing. Exhibit A is this New York Times op-ed moron:

He never talked about himself in the third person.

Was his name really Mister Ed? How could they have kept this from us?

His only tattoo was discreetly hidden.

Yes. There are all those horses with less moral courage who have ended too many drunken nights at the tattoo parlor.

He did no commercials for cellphone plans, credit cards, fast food chains or time shares.

Which shows incredible self restraint. Any talking horse would want to vouch for T-Mobile. Or at least be in the same room as Catherine Zeta-Jones.

He never dated Paris Hilton.

On this one, I think we have to give Paris the benefit of the doubt, and assume it was she who never dated Barbaro, despite his impassioned pursuit of her.

He never fathered multiple offspring out of wedlock. Alas.

Alas, that's because only the good die young and unmarried. Duh.

You know what else Barbaro never did? He never made up a national soap opera so editorial writers and pundits could wax poetic about absolutely nothing and get paid for it. For that, he definitely deserves a place in horse heaven. It's an outrage.