Cow Tipping Can Lead To Romance, a cautionary tale.

I had a buddy of mine once ask me to go on a date with him. "What do you need me for?" I asked, "you already have the girl lined up."

"I need a wingman, someone to make me look good, 'cause I'm really trying to impress this girl. I REALLY like her, and I want her to dig me, so you come along and tell her what a cool guy I am and give me some good jokes to tell. Besides, with you along she won't feel pressured, it'll just be like the three of us hangin' out."

I felt his plan was fatally flawed from the start, but he was a good friend of mine and I didn't really have anything better to do, so I went.

Now in my rural central Ohio hometown, there just isn't much to do on a Friday night if you aren't old enough to drink. Sure, you could go to the movies, grab a bite to eat, or do some shopping at the mall/feedstore and pick up some new overalls, but other than that, you had to invent your own entertainment. This was something I was good at, and I think it was for this reason alone my buddy invited me.

The evening started out predictably with picking her up, making introductions, as I had never met her, having a bite to eat, and over dinner the decision not to take in a flick or cruise the mall/feedstore was reached. As we exited the hamburger shop, the question was raised about what to do with our evening. Jokingly, I suggested cow tipping. I only mentioned it because she said she had grown up in town and had never been out to the country where we lived, nor had she ever tried it.

My buddy latched on to the idea like a pitbull to the mailman. "Let's go!" he said with enthusiasm, and with a laugh and a giggle, she agreed.

Now what neither one of them knew was that cow tipping is right up there with going on a snipe hunt. It is a ridiculous adventure in the dark meant to frighten the uninitiated, and often performed under the influence of alcohol. Much like two virgins having sex. And here I was nominated to be their safari guide on this foolishness. For the rest of the evening I referred to him as "Bwana", and her as "Mem'sab".

It was good and dark by the time we reached my uncle's dairy farm, but I had him park on a side road and not in the driveway, so I wouldn't have to explain to close family that I had brought two dimwitted strangers to knock bovines down hills to create an all natural milkshake. The first obstacle we faced was the fence. It has long been a theory of mine that how a person crosses a fence says a lot about them. I watched as my portly buddy proceeded to climb the wire fence in the middle point farthest from two posts and wobbled back and forth, and as he swung his leg over, snagged his crotch on the top string of barbed wire. It took him a minute or two to extricate himself amid hushed swearing and protestations that he hadn't really hurt himself too badly. To top it off, once he freed himself, he tumbled into a large patch of stinging nettles with all the grace of an elephant on a pogo stick. After wiping away the tears and trying not to scratch the itchy parts, he motioned her to come across and that he would help her.

At this point I intervened. I suggested that she might climb the fence near a post where it was sturdier, and very far from the patch of nettles that would leave itchy welts that would last for days. They took my advice, yet still managed to do a sketch that only Lucille Ball could have reproduced in her heyday. Now they turned and waited for me. I put one hand on top of a post and jumped over in one swift move and proceeded to lead them to the pasture.

The pasture consisted of one enormous steep hill that only leveled off at the summit where the radio tower was placed. I lead them there as they, hand-in-hand, leaned against the grade and spoke in hushed giggles of what a naughty thing they were doing. I found a nice spot that was reasonably cow-pie free, stretched out my coat on the ground for them to sit on and volunteered to head off looking for some unsuspecting cow to tip, leaving them alone under a starry night sky with the soundtrack of owls hooting and the serenade of crickets and a gentle breeze that was perfumed with the smell of wild flowers.

I should have told him that this was the time to make his move, because even Lon Chaney could have gotten laid under these conditions.

I wandered off "looking for cows" and left them alone. Now I knew before we came that we wouldn't find the first f*cking cow on the whole farm that night because these are dairy cows. These old girls are snug in the barn, dozing and dreaming of tomorrow's oats. They are NOT sleeping standing up in a field somewhere waiting to be knocked over by some rambunctious teens, contrary to popular myth.

I smoked a couple of cigarettes and watched the moonlight in the ripples of the pond as I wished my buddy the best of luck in his endeavors, and cursed my luck at being to young to buy some beer so that I could have enjoyed the night more with a wet whistle, while they hammered out the particulars of being young lovers.

"Find any?" she asked from behind me. I turned to find her there, and my buddy puffing the last few steps to join us. "Nope," I stammered at this unexpected company. It turns out, they spent the time discussing a mutually hated manager at the tractor supply company that they both worked for. Ah, youth is wasted on the young.

I lead them back to their comfy romantic spot and proceeded to instruct in Remedial Romance 101. I sat them together, while I sat off to the side, and pointed out the vastness of the universe that was unfolding above them. I made them breathe deep the air that was so full of the vibrancy of life and the smell of spring. I had them listen closely as one cricket seduced another with it's song. They listened as a pair of owls called to each other in their nightly primal hunt, as the dove cooed and snuggled with it's mate. I pointed out constellations that evoked the urgency of the ancients to understand and conquer this incomprehensible world.

If I could have played gypsy music on the f*cking violin, it couldn't have been more f*cking romantic, but these two clods couldn't even bring themselves to hold hands.

But the night wasn't a total waste. She fell for me and I had a short torrid affair with her that was based solely on sex, while my buddy married her psychotic best friend with intimacy issues. She is now fat, ugly, and married to a construction worker, but I know in my heart, she still longs for the night I took her cow tipping.

Doc

P.S.- This is a true story. Not one word of it has been fabricated, but a few were embellished. Also, this is the first post I have ever composed in the nude, as it is very f*cking hot.