Hank, Disgraced Budweiser Horse Turned Junkie, Tells All

The beloved Super Bowl classic, reprinted every year since our founding.

I get very excited when Super Bowl Sunday comes around, the reason, of course, being the Budweiser Clydesdale commercials. It’s some of the most powerful filmmaking around and I’m not ashamed to tell you, watching them, I’ve cried.

 My favorite is the classic involving Hank, the Clydesdale who yearns to be part of the team pulling the Budweiser wagon in the Super Bowl spot, only to hear, at the final selection, another horse’s name called.  “Maybe next year, Hank,” he’s told.  It reminds me of the time I put my name up for consideration as a film critic at the New York Times, except for the ‘Maybe next year’ part. 

But Hank does not give up.  Encouraged by his buddy the Dalmatian, and with the theme from ‘Rocky’ resounding in the background, Hank hoists a bale of hay to the barn rafters with the dog sitting on it. Then Hank drags a railcar flatbed down the tracks and finally, an entire railroad train. And next thing you know the Budweiser boss man is greeting him with a smile.

“Welcome aboard, Hank,” he says.

Naturally, I can’t wait to see what will happen this year. I go to the supermarket, to get taco chips and extra hot wings and whatever else it will take to give me heartburn and put me in the big game spirit. Then, heading back to my New York City apartment, who do I see in the freezing winter evening, huddling under construction at Sixth Avenue and 14^th Street, but Hank the Clydesdale?  He’s wearing a filth encrusted red horse blanket with the Bud insignia and his white blaze and white stocking feet are so grimy that at first, I’m not sure it’s him.

“Hank, is that really you?”, I say. “We don’t see a lot of Clydesdales on Union Square.”

“With these rents, I’m not surprised,” Hank says, bitterly. “Ta tum, rim shot. You happy now?”

Then he collapses. I want do something for him, but you know how it is, you never seem to have an ounce of sorghum mash on you when you run into a homeless horse in the street. But I’ve got to help the old fellow, so I take Hank back to my place, sneaking him into my building in the freight elevator.  (My co-op has a very strict no-horse policy.) I find Hank a dry blanket, fix him some Quaker oats, and try to find out what’s happened.

Luckily, I have decades of reporting experience and can deal with those who have fallen on hard times with tact.

“Hank,” I say. “What kind of imbecile are you? You were the star of one of the most watched commercials in Budweiser history. Now, they wouldn’t want you for dog food. And honestly, you stink. Have you no shame? You were so powerful you once pulled a line of railroad cars.”

The big horse sighs.

“Indeed, I did, Joyce,” Hank says. “And that is where all my troubles began.”

“What do you mean?” I say. “That spot made you famous.”

“Horses are not meant to pull railroad cars,” Hank said. “Even Clydesdales. The first time I pulled that flatbed I felt a terrible pain shooting up my back. Every time I pulled it, the pain got worse. But I was so obsessed about being part of that Super Bowl team, I didn’t care.”

“Couldn’t you have gone to the Budweiser vet?”  I ask.

Hank neighs nay.

“I was training secretly, remember?”, Hank says. “I couldn’t risk letting them find out I was schlepping freight cars. So, one day, I’m dragging myself back to the barn and this skunk notices I’m in pain —.”

“I hope that dealer was put away for life!”, I say, outraged.

“No, a real skunk,” Hank says. “But he knew somebody. And when you work for a brewing company, well, let’s just say a flat bed of beer can get you a lot of Oxy. It was a miracle drug, at first. You saw me prancing through that commercial. What you didn’t see was me passing out in the horse trailer afterwards.”

“But why didn’t you ask for help?” I ask.

“I did, “Hank said. “But the meds the vets gave me weren’t enough. The more Oxy you take, the more you need.  Also, I got to admit, I liked the buzz. It put me in a place where I wasn’t worrying all the time about measuring up. All I cared about was getting the next fix. When the trainers came to the barn, looking for horses for Budweiser events, I didn’t even bother standing up in the stall. I didn’t care if I had poop on my leg. I was like, ‘What do you expect? I’m a horse. Your beer sucks, anyway.’”

“You were an addict,” I say.

 “Totally,” Hank says. “I don’t blame them for throwing me out. At first, I even kidded myself that I liked the freedom.  I found out fast it’s a lot tougher to score when you’re not hauling a flatbed of beer. And getting the amount of Oxy a Clydesdale needs takes real money.  Giving five- year-olds rides at the state fair wasn’t going to cut it. I headed over the border to Mexico, where I’d heard drugs were cheaper. That’s when I hit bottom. You know those shows people whisper about in Tijuana?”

I’m horrified.

“No! Not that!”, I say.

“Yes,” Hank says. “I swear to you, it was always consensual.  And I still get Christmas cards from Angela. Anyway, that’s it, Joyce. I’m scum, I’m a good for nothing, Oxy addicted horse. I have dishonored the Budweiser and Clydesdale names.  I’ll understand if you throw me out.”

I felt something stir in me then. It sounded like – my heavens, it was – the rousing old Budweiser jingle, “Here comes the king, here comes the big number one”. I envisioned a new commercial: An old, beaten, drug addicted horse. A tough-love rehab, where the horse at first sits sulkily in group, refusing to share, but later, without complaint, takes his turn cleaning toilets. The triumphant return to the Budweiser barn. Plus, I have always wanted to direct.

“No, Hank,” I say. “You are not finished. I once worked at People Magazine and I can tell you that there is nothing America loves as much as a comeback. We’re going to get you out to the Hazelden Betty Ford clinic in Rancho Mirage -- I think they have a stable. We’re gonna get you groomed. I’m going to have my agent get on the horn with Netflix. You’re going to be the biggest Clydesdale ever!”

Hank wipes his eyes with his large, hairy hoof.

“Oh, Joycie,” he says. “Do you really think so?”

“Absolutely, big guy,” I say. “Now what do you say we trot into the kitchen and get you some more oatmeal? I think I might even be able to scare up some raisins.”