Recently, I mentioned on the Tweeter when I sent out one of my nonsense “twats” that I tend to make notes on the fly on my phone or in my notebook. This happens if I’m in the car, at a restaurant, sitting on the couch and watching T.V….you get the idea. I don’t want to forget what will obviously be comedy gold so that I don’t forget to share it with y’all.
But here’s The Thing™ that you’ve all come to expect:
Jotting down a note like “cow story” is not helpful two weeks later if you have a memory like mine.
I spent weeks trying to remember why I had jotted down such a strange–and possibly threatening–note to myself. Why had I thought of cows? Did I remember some unusual cow story? I mean, I vaguely remembered reading an online post that mentioned that cows lay down between 10 to 12 hours a day. That made me realize that cows and I don’t just have similar BMI’s but also resting habits. Also, a cow that is milking consumes about 100 lbs of feed a day. So…same.
Anyhoozles, I racked my brain (what’s left of it due to some truly questionable behavior in the late 90’s/ early aughts) and tried to figure out why I had jotted this note down. I came up with absolutely nothing. Other than cows being bigger assholes than people know, I just couldn’t remember what I wanted to talk about. Cows will fuck your shit up. You didn’t know that? Oh, yeah. If one of those fuckers turns its head slowly and stares you down, it’s calculating how many kicks until you’re dead. People talk about punching sharks in the snout if attacked or laying in the fetal position if a bear comes after you. There’s no defense for cows. If you punch them in the snout, they’ll scissor kick you like a Ninja Warrior. If you get in the fetal position, you just made things easier for them. They can kick you while they’re laying down for half a day. There’s no defense for cow attacks. Cows kill 20 people a year. That’s a higher killstreak than sharks, bears, alligators, venomous snakes and lizards, and spiders combined. Make peace with your maker. Unless that’s Kamadhenu. She’s on the cow’s side.
So, I did what any irrational person would do. I admitted that I have Alzheimer’s to my wife and asked for her help. As if having dementia wasn’t enough salt in the wound, JoJo (the missus) immediately remembered why I had written down “cow story” in my notebook. She has a good memory just to mock me. I know it. She knows it. And now you know it.
JoJo reminded me that one night we were sitting in the living room, discussing our days and she told me about a guy that had a cow wander up into his yard…in a residential neighborhood. Now, look. I live in Texas. Cows are plentiful. They’re like maple syrup in Canada or cousin-daddies in Arkansas. Cows are everywhere. However, in a town of 40,000+ people, you don’t really expect a cow to just stroll up like the fucking asshole that it is and start grazing on your lawn in the center of town. But, the fact remains, this fellow looked outside one night, the sun setting beautifully on the horizon, the mid-summer haze starting to clear, the temperature thankfully dropping below two-hundred degrees, sipping his sweet iced tea as he gazed out over his property…and Bessie the goddamn milk cow was chewing up his lawn, staring daggers at him, daring him to say something.
This alone is pretty funny. I mean…really? I’ve seen a stray dog wander onto my lawn from time to time. Or a meth-head or a Methodist (there’s a church across the street–for Methodists, not meth-heads), but never a cow. And I live in a pretty rural area. So, for someone, who lives in the center of town, to look out and see a cow just standing there, chewing its cud and just chillin’ like it ain’t no thing but a chicken wing on a string at Burger King is. just. funny. I mean, if I had been that guy, I probably would’ve just called the day a bust and went to bed. Gotta get my 10 to 12 hours of laying down in, after all.
At that point in our conversation, JoJo fantasized about a cow wandering up into our yard because she likes hamburgers, and free meat, right?
JoJo: If a cow wandered into our yard, possession is nine-tenths of the law. We’d be set for ground beef for at least a few days.
Me: I think a whole cow would last more than a few days, even as fat as we are.
JoJo: Well, one them sumbitches wanders up, we’re making hamburgers.
Me: Do you even know how to process a cow? Like, really? Do you know what all that entails?
JoJo: … I just figured I’d run at it with my fist and meat would shoot out or something.
JoJo: We could pay someone to do it for us. Like a butcher or something.
Me: That’s expensive. Look, I ain’t scared of no cow. I wake up praying for death, so I’ll take one for the team. I’ll lead it out onto the highway and smoke a cigarette on the side of the road while we wait on a semi. You get the shovel and get ready to scrape stuff up. Okay?
JoJo: You haven’t smoked in forever.
Me: In this fantasy, I still smoke because heart attacks, strokes, and cancer aren’t a thing.
JoJo: I don’t want hamburgers anymore.
So, basically, I had jotted down “cow story” as a note so that I could share with all of you how JoJo and I are plotting a cow murder which will result in us being placed on PETA’s watch list*. No. Asking JoJo about the note wasn’t worth it for any of us–but here we are.
By the way, did you know you can buy cooked ground beef in a can? Well, it’s a thing. If you buy it, tell me how that worked out for you…and may God have mercy on your digestive track.
*Save your twats and FB posts and blog posts chastising me for being cruel to animals or wasting our state highway’s resources. I don’t care that you can’t take a joke.
Until next time…