Cows are really starting to piss me off. Some may think it merely coincidence, while others might suspect it to be part of some strange, organized conspiracy, but lately cows have been doing everything in their power to make my life miserable.
Last week I go into Johnny Ozark’s for some chicken-stuffed jalapenos, and when I get my tray and my large Pepsi I start looking for a place to sit down. All the tables are full, and all the little old-fashioned school desks lining the walls are full, too. And then I notice it–there’s a cow sitting in one of them.
Of course, fair’s fair, and I’m happy to concede to all the other diners who got there before I did, but this freakin’ cow isn’t eating anything. In fact, it isn’t even reading a newspaper or talking on a cell phone. It’s just sitting there…sitting there occupying that last seat just so I won’t have a place to sit down. And the thing that made me really mad was that it wouldn’t even look at me. It just stared off into space with a dull look, as though I didn’t even exist.
So, a couple of days ago my car refuses to start while I’m downtown shopping for a pair of shorts. Usually I never take a taxicab, but this day I finally have to because it’s the only way I’m going to get home. Now, every other time I’m walking around downtown there’s an empty cab toodling by every minute or so, but today? No. They’re all occupied. By cows.
Cab goes by–there’s a cow sitting in the back seat. Another cab goes by–there’s a cow in it. Cab–cow. Cab–cow. My mind starts to reel. Where the hell are they going? How do they tell the cab driver where to go? Does he just assume they’re going to the nearest cow pasture, start the meter, and take off? And how the hell does he expect to be paid–by a cow? It just doesn’t make sense.
Okay, so this is really starting to bug me, but I’m all like, “Okay, it’s just a coincidence. Cows aren’t plotting against you. These things happen. Just be cool, and pretty soon you’ll be looking back and laughing about this whole thing.” Uh-huh. At least, I thought so until yesterday.
Long story short–some personal business crops up that urgently requires my presence in Cincinatti, Ohio within the next few hours. So I call the airport and ask the lady for a seat on the next thing smoking. She informs me:
“I’m sorry, sir, but I just sold the last one five minutes ago.”
“The last one? Five minutes ago?”
“You didn’t…by any chance…sell it to a cow, did you?”
“A COW!!! A COW!!! What, are you DEAF?”
“DON’T LIE TO ME, YOU BITCH! YOU’RE ALL IN THIS TOGETHER! YOU, THE ENTIRE AIR TRAVEL INDUSTRY, AND THE COWS! THOSE BASTARD COWS! YAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!!!”
So now I’m, like, banned for life from ever setting foot in the airport ever again, or ever calling a Mrs. Edna P. Flonase on the phone again, which is pretty inconvenient as well as being rather embarrassing. And that’s just what those cow bastards wanted.
Of course, I may have overreacted a tad–but I was under a strain, as you can surely understand. Anyway, I decided that it was time to confront these cow bastards once and for all, so I drove out to the nearest pasture and stood at the barbed-wire fence, surveying the dozens of cows that were standing around eating grass or whatever it is that they do in order to lull people into a false sense of security.
“WELL…HERE I AM!” I screamed. “YOU WANTED A PIECE OF ME? FINE! LET’S GET IT ON, YOU BASTARD COWS! HERE AND NOW! ONCE AND FOR ALL! LET’S ROOOOOOCK!!!”
Some of the cows looked at me–sizing me up, I sensed, and assessing me as a foe–while the others pretended not to notice me. This stoked my rage even further.
“COME ON!” I shrieked, frothing at the mouth. “I’M STANDING HERE! WHO WANTS SOME? HUH? YOU BASTARD, COWARD COWS! COWAAAARDS!!!”
At this, some of the cows began to move away slowly, warily. Others joined them, until most of them were retreating like the cowards they were. A few remained behind, probably the self-appointed military wing of the herd. Single cows, I’d imagine…reckless, expendable…eager for glory. I welcomed their attack. Pushed beyond all normal limits, I was ready to rumble.
But it was not to be, not that day at least. After a tense, two-hour Mexican standoff, the last cows finally drifted away and wandered out of sight. I stood there, drenched–it had started to rain rather heavily at some point–and relished my victory. A temporary one, to be sure, but satisfying all the same.
I had faced my foes, these overconfident cow bastards who thought I’d be an easy prey–a “pushover”–and I had forced them to back down by sheer will power alone. And somewhere, I don’t know where, but somewhere, a “Mrs. Edna P. Flonase” just might be lying awake in bed, agonizing over whether or not she picked the right side in this war.