STOP!
If you or any member of your entourage is or has been a vegetarian, a member of PETA, had a cow as a pet, Ever looked at a cow and thought "cute", throw up easily, and/or don't like me very much.
DO NOT READ THIS!
Fair warning.I love Bill Cosby.
I have never met the guy, and I never watched his show, but I have all his albums. I even transferred them all to computer gibberish so I could have them on my I-pod. Funny stuff, I freely admit that my sense of humor is odd. I should clarify that by just saying that I am odd and leave it at that. I listen to Bill when I run, when I ride my bicycle, when on long road trips, once he accidentally started playing loudly in my pocket whilst I was in line at a book store. Awkward.
He has a couple of lines that I use all the time. Shakespeare wished he would have had Bills timing. Here is one. "I told you that story, so I could tell you this one"
wait for it.
My family is a family of hunters. We shoot things and eat them after they are dead. Only because its much easier than trying to eat them while they are still moving.
Deer, Elk, Buffalo, various fish and fowl and once, my brother killed and et a rattlesnake. Its just one of those things that I grew up doing, like working with my hands, working with my Dad and uncles and brothers. Just living. They told us stories about when they were younger. About the hunting trips and adventures they had had.
Gut piles.
That is all the parts of an animal you leave in the mountains, with fish and birds it is a very small amount, with deer its a fairly large pile. With Elk. Holy mountains of moly. The damn things have TWO stomachs and enough gut to make a very large pile.
They also swell up after a few hours in the sun. Give them a day or two before the various animal life that dine on such things have found them, and they look like large veiny balloons.
One of my favorite stories was about my Uncle John, he died when I was 9. So all of the stories of him seemed to resonate a little more.
He loved to fish and hunt and play his guitars, He was an excellent house painter. He was a Father and a Husband and a Brother, and my Uncle.He seemed to be universally loved. Melancholy is not what I was aiming for here, so to continue.
He shot a gut pile.
That's not the funny part.
The funny part was the bird sitting on top of the gut pile.
When you introduce a high velocity bullet to a swollen pile of two stomachs, it explodes. The camp robber sitting on top of the mountain of moly was engulfed in a rain of shredded gut.
When it flew over my Dad and John it was making this sound "bleeeeechhhh, bleeeeeeech,aaaaaaaacchhhh"
When my Dad told this story I would laugh. So should you.
Here it is. "I told you that story, so I could tell you this one"
(Thanks BIll)
I told the above story to my Brother in Law.
I laughed at the punch line.
He was skeptical. Very skeptical.
I told him in the midst of a very very long drive to a family reunion. Our wives (sisters) had gone down earlier and we were just catching up. He was starting to be a prick about it. Telling me all the reasons why it could not be true, telling me all the reasons it could never happen.
His tape deck and radio were broken, he had gas, and he loved to eat those awful gas station hot dogs that are anywhere from 2-6 years old.
They gave him Gas.
I think that his gas is what inspired me to tell the gut pile story.
His skepticism was annoying as hell. So I told him to go to hell and watched cows flit by the windows.
It was silent except for his thunderbum.
Then we passed a dead cow.
It looked like a balloon with four legs.
All the other cows had spread out away from it, leaving it alone in its swollen nastiness.
The Brother in law stopped, and drove back.
To my "What the hell?"
He replied by getting out his 38 pistol, (he collects the money for ATMs, so he carries this cute little 38) and getting out of the truck. Apparently he was going to demonstrate the fallacy of my story by perforating this bloated bovine.
I got out and was trying to explain that the "gut pile" was no longer inside the animal and that....
He shot at it.
Six times.
It was only about twenty feet away.
He hit it twice.
I was shaking my head, more at his marksmanship then his stupidity.
I could hear a hissing sound, and a groaning noise.
He turned to me, a triumphant smirk on his bloated bespectacled brainless visage.
And behind him, the groaning turned into a flatulent moo.
As the bloated cow got up. Clearly. Not Dead.
Yet.
