Let me inform you that I am not the person to frequent Renaissance fairs.

In fact, I’ll expand that to say that I am usually not found in a cultural event that takes more than an IQ of 70 to full appreciate. Slayer concerts, yes. Beethoven, no.

It’s not that I’m stupid, it’s just that I’m trying to do a crude form of crop rotation with my brain cells. The less I use a certain part of my brain, the more ready it will be for action, right? So today I decided to rest the area of my brain that controls my laziness.

And so I went to go get cultured.

Finding the place was actually not bad. That is, if you have an ATV with monster truck wheels. Since the street system was invented after the Mona Lisa was painted they can’t give real directions. Ever tried to covert 40 paces North into miles?

Once you get in the general region, though you can play it by ear (pun intended). The braying noises of farm animals guided me through the misty wood and the murky brine (It’s rubbing off on me, I suppose).

“Strict limit of one cow per customer!” I heard a man cry out.

I was freaked by this time. First, how many cows did he have? And how many people wanted a cow?

Party to find out, partly because I needed to be cultured, and partly because cows remind me of marshmallows (I’m in a support group for that one), I approached him to buy one. Nah, make that two. If I was going to get into this Renaissance stuff I was going to do it in a big way.

“I’d like three cows, please,” I announced as nonchalantly as I could.

He was going to open his mouth to refuse but then he changed his mind. I assumed this had nothing to with the fact that animal patrol cops were quickly speeding up to the scene.

I wasn’t sure how much money to give him, but cultured people are always rich so I just tossed him my wallet, credit cards and all. A cultured person is trustworthy, right?

The animal cops closed in, The cow dealer ran away as fast as he could, and as he left he shouted something along the lines of “Get that guy in the black shirt!”

Apparently black shirts were uncommon around here, because I was closed in on almost immediately.

What could I do? The cows were tied to a pole and I felt abandoning them would be a rather poor return on my life savings. I rooted the pole out of the ground and ran furiously.

The thing is, cows apparently don’t like to be dragged around. With sheer force alone they all managed to break the ropes that bonded them and came straight at me.

By this time the animal cops (Why where they there in the first place?) were just staring. The cows were getting bigger, or were they smaller?

I searched frantically in my mind for some famous last words.

“Don’t raze me, bro!” was about all that came out.

……………………….

“Chill, dawg, I’m right here,” one of the cows replied.

What?

Suddenly the cow looked more and more like my friend Rick.

“Good trip?”

He grinned. “The Slayer concert was awesome, right?”

Crap. I’ll have to try this culture thing another time.