Partly Cloudy, 64°
Happy springtime, you motherfuckers. That's right, your favorite four-legged bovine is back to eat all the grass on Wriston, one Wednesday at a time. So how was your winter? Midterms, huh? That sucks. Want to know what I was doing? Oh, not much, just every steer and bull in Rhode Island. How's it going trying to convince that person you've had a crush on since orientation to hook up with you? Maybe you should just present your ass to them. That's what works for me.
I'm ready to pose for all your pictures. If you don't know what I'm talking about, just scroll through your friends' Facebook photos. Guaranteed you'll see my smug-ass face looking back at you if you scroll back to about October or so. By the way, how many Facebook friends do you have? Because I have 4,533. Put that on your cereal and slurp it.
Yeah, that's right. I even squeezed out a calf in between producing milk and shitting wherever I want. Where is he, you ask? Who knows, probably kicking ass at whatever farm they took him to. Who owns the farm? Somebody named Veal. Yeah, Veal Farm. Is that in Rhode Island?
There's nothing like chilling on Wriston Quad to make me realize how much better my species is than yours. Not only were we wearing nose rings before it was cool, but we even have a disease named after us. Wearing shoes? Yeah, real cool. Dairy cow don't give a shit.
I'm telling you, I've got these farmers eating out of my hand. Or, rather, drinking out of that pink thing dangling under me. Yeah, my udder. Suck my big fat dangling udder.
And here's the beautiful thing: I don't even have to do that much work since I don't make that much milk anymore. Yeah, OK, this bitch is getting old, I'll admit it.
They're moving me to an even bigger and badder farm, so I'll be saying peace out to you drunken fucks throwing that stupid disc-thing back and forth in my grazing territory. Which farm? Portsmouth Nursery. It's practically all bulls and steers over there so I'm gonna be getting action all day. These hippy-dippy Rhode Island farmers are real sad to see me go. The way they blubber on you'd think I was never coming back. They're all like "Aaaah. I don't want to see you turned into a hamburger!" What's that all about? I'm pretty sure I'm going to a farm, not Transfiguration class.
Anyways, have fun with your opposable thumbs you tail-less losers. PEACE!
