Cow

Cow: (n) the mature female of a bovine animal

Cow is a word. Cow is a concept. Cow is a picture.

Cow is an animal. Cow is a creature. Cows live on farms.funny wisdom on words that begin with a C

A farm is a concept. It is also a word.

Cows hang out in barns. Barns have hay. It piles up in lofts.

Cows give milk. Milk makes cheese.

Cheese gives us something on our burger so the bacon sticks and doesn’t slide off.

Cows sometimes have a cottage where they make cheese. Cows have udders. These are ‘udderly’ large nipples.

We are not allowed to say ‘nipples,’ at least, not without giggling.

But you see, all of these are antiseptic visions of a cow. They are representations. They are promotable units which can be pandered off to the masses.

If you were actually to go to a farm which has a barn wherein dwells a cow, you would learn very quickly that they smell bad. (Either the barn or the cow—maybe even the farm.) It’s not the cow’s fault. Hygiene is not a primary concern. Crevices are difficult to reach.

Cows also chew their cud, which once again, sounds reasonably harmless unless you’re watching them swish it around in their mouths like some sort of gooey, slimy hockey puck.

Watching cows being milked may cure you of your desire for dairy.

Trying to communicate with a cow will certainly give you a parallel to parenting.

And note—a cow’s constant friends are hundreds of flies, which blow them continually, and not in a pleasant way.

We also acknowledge that cows make beef products like steak and hamburger. But sometimes it’s best to show up to the party a little bit late so you don’t have to view what goes into arranging the decorations.

I can continue to eat hamburger as long as I don’t have to think about cows. Matter of fact, I have thought about cows just about as much as I wish or would ever want to think about again.

If you want to contemplate cows more, you should probably Google them, or risk going out into the countryside and carefully walking through the pasture to interview one.

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Commute

Commute: (v) to travel some distance between one’s home and place of work on a regular basis.

Sitting around the room at a party last night with a bunch of friends and family, a young man piped up and said, “I evaluate people on whether they voted for this President. If they did I know they’re stupid.”

Well, truthfully, this article could be read forty years from now and it would still apply to someone who felt that way because “their” person did not make the White House.

I did not condemn the young man for his judgmental attitude. I didn’t try to convince him that he was wrong.funny wisdom on words that begin with a C

I did explain to him that he didn’t understand the mindset, simplicity and utter joy of small-town people all over America–who don’t have to commute an hour-and-a-half to go to work.

If they want a loaf of bread, they climb into their truck, drive down to the local market, where they spend much more time jabbering with their neighbors than getting their purchase. The trip back home takes no more than two minutes. There are no frayed nerves from traffic jams. There are no attitudes that the human race is full of assholes because they got cut off at the one stoplight in town.

It is much easier for them to be genteel.

But it’s also easier for them to be suspicious of the “big city ideas” trying to come in and take over.

When you live in a city where there’s a commute, you, yourself, develop a different pathway to sanity.

You may be more defensive.

You may be more interested in the government taking over matters of social order, since you don’t grow your own corn and soybeans.

You are not worse than the man or woman who lives in Iowa and only needs five minutes to get to their job or their barn.

You’re just different. Your perspective varies from theirs.

Wise is the soul who understands the simplicity of the village folk, and the struggle of those who commute.

 

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Burlap

j-r-practix-with-border-2

Burlap: (n) coarse canvas woven from jute or hemp, used especially for sacking.

I once was young enough that a hostess offered me accommodations in a barn. (You have to look like you’re brave and strong, able to survive the elements and sleep on hay.)

I was grateful. She explained that she had so many guests in the house that she had run out of blankets and pillows, but I was more than welcome to draw from a huge stack of burlap bags in the corner of the barn to use for such purposes.

Upon entering the barn, I first found a collection of hay that was dry enough, without suspicious damp portions. That was pretty successful, although I will tell you, a bed of hay gets thinner and thinner as the night goes on and you crush the straws.

As she noted, there were innumerable burlap bags, which I grabbed and pieced together to form a blanket and a pillow. I would not consider myself to be a woodsman or an individual given to outdoorsy experiences, but I’ve had my share. Yet on this particular night, it was impossible for me to sleep.

The burlap was so coarse, so itchy, that I was convinced I had thousands of ants crawling all over my body, which was further reinforced by the knowledge that I was lying on a bed of straw.

I tried to throw the makeshift burlap blanket off, but then I got too cold–but every time I covered with it, I got too itchy.

So I faced a perplexing situation in the morning when I stumbled out of the barn and headed to the house for breakfast.

I knew my hostess was going to ask me how I fared amongst the animals, so I quickly grabbed two biscuits, stuffed them in my mouth, took a big swig of milk, and kept my orifice filled the entire meal– so I was only able to communicate with nods and grunts.

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Bovine

Bovine: (adj) of, relating to, or affecting cattle.

I suppose I would feel differently if I grew up on a ranch, but during my travels, I was invited Dictionary Bby a gentleman and his wife to come and stay a couple of days on their farm.

Normally on these kinds of excursions, I try to express an interest by offering the extent of what I know about their occupation or lifestyle. I don’t do this to be a know-it-all, but just to get the conversation started, so they can ramble on a bit and be my instructors.

I feel it’s the least I can do for some good meat loaf and clean sheets.

But when it came to the realm of farming and the animals that inhabit the location, I was lost. Matter of fact, when my friend took me out to his barn, I walked in and felt as if I had just landed on a really bad-smelling planet.

Yes–barns do not sniff of hay. They permeate of shit.

But I endured.

First we walked by some horses. Honest to God, I would swear that those creatures stared at me as if to say, “What in the hell are you doing in here?”

Then we arrived at the cows. The bovines.

  • I was surprised at how large they were.
  • I was stunned by how indifferent they seemed to my presence.
  • And I was extraordinarily overwhelmed by the size of their teats.

I kind of felt like a little boy who suddenly discovered a Playboy Magazine–farm version.

I became completely befuddled when the farmer wanted me to reach down and pull on the protrusions to acquire milk. I can’t even describe the levels of squeamish that trickled down my spine. It was a combination of girly-girl “g-r-r-r-oss” and feeling like I was cheating some calf out of breakfast.

I will never forget the experience, because it is so typical of me as a person.

After all, it is much easier to discuss a cow in theory than have a face-to-face.

 

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Barn

Barn: (n) a large farm building used for storing grain, hay, straw or for housing livestock.Dictionary B

I grew up in a small town of 1,500 people.

One of the nice things about living in a village is that if you own one thing that others don’t, you are cool–and if by some miracle you have two, then you are rich.

I was on the junior high school basketball team.

A friend of mine lived right outside town and had a barn adjacent to his house. His parents had built, in the hayloft, a basketball court, complete with two hoops and a lovely wood floor.

It was magnificent.

I’m sure if I saw it today, it would appear rustic and dank. But to us, born in a little burg, it was Madison Square Haygarden.

My friend had never invited me up to play basketball. Other members of the team had been numerous times, but I was never included.

It hurt my feelings.

So one day when I was at his house, I just popped off with the question. “Hey, why don’t we go out to the barn and play some basketball?”

My friend was nervous but agreed. So we climbed up the steps, onto the court, and were bouncing and shooting away, when suddenly the floor just beneath my feet broke through and I fell straight down through the hole, catching myself by my armpits.

There I was, legs dangling to the floor beneath, wedged into a small opening, unable to get myself out.

Finally my friend was able to gather three or four other guys, along with his dad, to pull me out of the crevice and set me back onto firm lumber.

My friend then explained that this was why he had never invited me to the basketball court–he knew I was too heavy and might break through, but kept praying the whole time that everything would be okay.

It wasn’t.

I learned two valuable lessons that day:

  1. If you’re going to be fat, sometimes you’ll be left out of the skinny games.
  2. Prayer doesn’t always keep you from falling through the cracks…and dangling by your pits.

 

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American Dream

dictionary with letter A

American dream: (n) the traditional social ideals of the U.S., such as equality, democracy and material prosperity.

I think the American dream has been over-analyzed by Freudian pundits and politicians who plan on using their own interpretation to bring about the enactment of their particular will.

I’m not so sure I agree with the Republicans that every American wants a gun.

Likewise, the more liberal view of the Democrats concerning giving people license to do whatever they want to under the guise of civil rights doesn’t achieve much more than an emotional traffic jam.

I’ll tell you what I think the American dream is: Hunk, Chunk, Junk.

I think the power of freedom in this country, with the intelligent use of capitalism, enables me to go out and get my hunk. I should have every right to do that. If it doesn’t infringe on the needs of others or hurt my fellow-man and woman, I should be applauded for my efforts and be given a barn to store my bounty.

Then from that hunk, I should get my chunk. This is probably where people will disagree with me. Lots of folks think they need every single dime they earn to cover their own personal indebtedness. If that’s the case, you’ll spend your life pretty miserable. I should be able to break off a chunk from my hunk that will make me happy and keep me in grits, gravy, gravel and glee.

What remains from my hunk actually becomes my junk. Things I don’t need. Things I don’t want anymore. It’s a startling but true statement that if everybody in America emptied their attics and garages of all the things they haven’t used in the past six months, and gave them to their neighbors, 75% of the personal needs of others would be fulfilled.

It’s not treasure if moths and rust are corrupting it and it’s being stolen by time and depreciation.

Get rid of your junk.

Bless someone else. They won’t think it’s junk.

They will treasure it as their hunktheir American dream.