“Hey, how’s everyone feeling tonight!”
audience: (Silence speaks louder than words)
“Just flew in from Pencil-vein-ya, God my arms are tired.”
Maude to her sister-in-law: “I think I heard that one before.”
“You heard about the guy, goes to a doctor, says “Doc, I think I’m upside-down. Doc asks ‘How come?’ The guy says ‘My nose runs and my feet smell.'”
Maude: “Yup, third grade, if I recall correctly.”
(switches to combat-mode) “Hey nice jacket, Maude. Everybody on the bowling team gets one?”
Maude to sis: “We missed Hogan’s Heroes for this?”
But seriously, folks, cows, whom I know intimately, (details may emerge after my passing) are the champions of excrement, un-begrudging behemoths of ‘doin’ their buziness’ A cow can piss like overturning a 55 gallon drum after two weeks of steady rain. She can fill a wheel-barrow in two minutes with ‘fertilizer’. And Snot, (yes, our present inquiry), well, a cow with a runny-nose is a marvel to behold. Of course they do have tongues capable of reaching their huge nostrils with ease.
A cow’s tongue is long. Longer than the plate it often sat on, in the middle of the dinner-table, as we took turns slicing off another piece of it until the bovine donor, rest her soul, was rendered ex-post-facto speechless. Or at least troubled by a heavy lisp. I never enjoyed these dining occasions, feeling pressured to consume such a recognizable body-part. Kinda like the eyes of a fish on a plate, looking up at you in accusatory but helpless rage.
But wait, I promised Snot. Ok, have snot.
Although my younger sister was light-years more natural and ‘supportive’ in the task, (Hi, kid) I was sometimes called upon to spend the night consoling a cow-with-a-cold, watching over her like a Guardian Angel as she slept fitfully, snot oozing from her nostrils like a water-main break. I did my best. Hey, that’s what burlap feed-bags are for, in a pinch: Cow Hankies.
Cows get lots of colorful diseases: Brucelosis, Bang’s disease, Cock-sidy-osis (sp?), mastitus, and ‘milk-fever’, a result of Calcium deficiency during late-stage gestation. At least that one has a miracle-cure: a liter of calcium into the neck-vein, and she’s up and moon-walking within five-mintes, often before the vet drives back down the lane. Oh, I forgot to mention The Bloat. With four(4) stomachs, cows get gas, and then they can’t breathe. The solution, in extremis, is a hollow knife, stabbed precisely where your index-finger ends up when you place your thumb on the hip-bone and little finger on the last rib. (Best to get your hand out of the way before completing this procedure.)
Anyway, one particularly articulate cow I remember, Bonnie, was tickled pink upon awakening one morning with me ever-watchful by her side. She mooed appreciatively at the charm of my palindrome: ‘WELL ITS TONS-O-SNOT STILL..EW!’ Wonder if she’s got a Xanga?