Cow Trouble

By Rockwell P. Stonehenge

 

I ain't no crackpot. No matter what them guys at the VA hospital say. I seen some stuff in my life that'd turn you white.

Back in my Army days, I worked on some things that I ain't allowed to mention, but I can tell you some things about the government in charge of these here United States of America just the same.

I live on a farm, but I'm no redneck. And maybe I ain't seen everything in this big, wide world, but I still seen enough to know what's really going on.

I got cows. Not too many of them, but enough. And if one of my heifers die, I damned well want to know why.

Well, about two weeks ago, one of best producers (and a damned fine looking specimen of cow I might add), Pooksie, keeled over in my pasture. When I found her the next day, there was parts missing. I think you know the parts I'm talking about. If not, I'll draw you a picture.

Her…genitalia was all gone. Removed nice and easy. No blood, no muss, no fuss.

Well, I called the vet out to take a look, and he called the Sheriff. We was all perplexed. Things like this don't usually happen down here in Juniper county.

A few days later, these two guys pull up in a big black sedan. They was wearing sunglasses even though it was already dark out. So of course, I figure they must be on dope. They tell me that my Pooksie died of a heart attack, and the missing parts was all eaten by birds. Birds!! Can you believe that?

"Birds my eye" I tell them.

I never seen no bird chew out a bunghole in my life. And living on a farm, bungholes are something I know a lot about. But that's another story.

I figure maybe these guys were on their dope one night, and came out here and de-bunged my Pooksie. Maybe they was into Satan worship, or Amway, or some other weird crap. How would I know?

So these guys tell me that I shouldn't go telling anyone about my cow, and just forget the whole thing. And you know, I almost did.

But a few nights later, I hear a ruckus coming from my back pasture. I figure the dope brothers are back taking advantage of another of my heifers. So I run out with my trusty over-under and what do I see?

Bright lights, little gray guys, and some big-ass airship. AND, no dope heads.

Now, you don't have to hit me on the head with a shovel more than once to get me to understand that these ain't no ordinary cattle rustlers.

Normally I'd have just shot first and asked questions later. That's the way we did things back in the old days. If someone was trying to make it with one of your cows, you just blow their kneecaps off, hog tie them to a post, drop your pants and show him how that cow….never mind.

Anyway, I didn't shoot. I just watched. They was funny looking. And they was running all around checking out all the different cows, poking them, prodding them, and otherwise examining them. Some of them little guys had devices in their hands, and they was doing things to my cows. Now, I know exactly what I was seeing, but I wasn't about to run out there and do anything to these little buggers. Who knows what kind of death rays they was packing. Klaatu Barada Nikto my patootie. I stayed hidden just like I did in the summer of '42. See the Krauts had me and my boys pinned down in a foxhole. And after Johnny bought it, we decided maybe it wasn't worth sticking our heads out to see what was going on. Most of us never liked Johnny anyway. But when one of them stick grenades dropped in and took Tommy to the great beyond, we decided it was time to be offensive. And my late wife (God rest her soul) used to always tell me I was really good at being offensive. So with my M1 and bayonet we charged that pillbox and had us some wiener schnitzels for dinner that night, I could tell you.

Where was I?

Oh yeah.

So, they had their way with my cow, and when they left, I ran in the house and called the sheriff.

Well, we never found them little guys, but I did lose another cow.

Hold on, the doorbell's ringing.

Wow. That was weird. It was them two nice gentleman with the sunglasses. They explained it again about what happened. At least I know it weren't no bird killing my cows.

It was just like I saw it last night. It was them damned Russian midgets. I could tell by the way they walked. Never trust a Rusky, I always say. Take down all the iron curtains you want, they still won't ever be our friends. I read about them midget commandos. The Russians used them in the Great War too. Elite paratroopers or something. It all makes sense now. The Russians need cows, and they're stealing parts from mine to make some kind of Super Cow. You know, there's a Russian guy in town that owns a newsstand. He sells copies of that Pravda magazine. I think I'll go into town tomorrow and set his place on fire. They ain't gonna take my cows without a fight. Damned Russians and their Super Cows. I'll teach them to mess with me.

You know, I'm filling out my taxes as I write this, and I think I'll check that box to donate a dollar to the Government. Hell, I'll donate a twenty. Wow. I've never wanted to donate before. I guess when you lose a couple of cows and find out that the red army is living in your county you get generous. I guess. What other explanation could there be for it?

 

-4/12/97

 

 

If you have any questions, E-Mail me. Spat@spat-nospam-cave.com