Why I’ll Never Live in the Country — Or, How a Farmer Scarred Me for Life
We love our listeners in Othello, Prosser, Umatilla and everywhere else that’s considered “rural.” But I never, ever want to live in the country. The reason goes back to an extra credit project in Ag class. The teacher said I could butcher two cows for the necessary points.
I thought that would be a pretty good solution. How hard can it be?
You might be asking yourself what we learned in Ag class? Holy cow. Everything from welding, the different cuts of meat, different kinds of grain, different kinds of farming. I hated it. I had zero interest. I thought it’d be easy. It sucked.
So my parents set the butchering up with a farmer we knew. Early one weekend I met up with him and he handed me a high powered rifle. He pointed to the field and told me to go shoot myself a cow. I’m not a hunter… I’d never killed anything in my entire life.
I went out, pointed the gun right at the cow’s head and shot it in the forehead. It didn’t budge. It stood there and took the bullet.
“What do I do?” I yelled.
“Shoot it again until it drops to the ground,” he yelled back.
So I did.
It scarred me for life.
After you shoot it you must jump in and slit the throat and let the blood drain out or the meat will be ruined.
It was really hard work so I took a seat to rest. I was just sitting there minding my own business when I was smacked in the face with something.
I looked at the farmer, and he’s holding the bull penis. He slapped me with a four-foot penis.
After that experience I swore I would never raise my family in the country, ever.
I didn’t stop eating beef, but every time I see a bull I have unhappy memories.