The Hillbilly In Jock’s Clothing

There’s a day in my past that I’ve been so reluctant to discuss that even some of my closest friends haven’t been privy to this tragic tale. Let me begin by providing you a little background information. When I was in my twenties, I was far more inclined to overlook a man’s flaws as long as he was smoking hot. Besides, back then we didn’t have the tools that we have today to help identify illiteracy issues. No Facebook. No texting. How was one to know if somebody had difficulty determining the difference between ‘there’, ‘their’ and ‘they’re’? It’s not as if we all wrote each other letters. I never asked for writing samples from any of my prospective suitors, although in hindsight referencing a book report might not have been a bad idea. Now-a-days, it’s a total deal breaker for me. God forbid you’re a shitty speller or bust out a double negative. Sorry… not going to happen, pal. Essentially, I was duped into dating an idiot for a substantial period of time. He remains the most attractive man I’ve ever dated until this day, but I let ‘pretty’ distract me from his need for ‘Hooked on Phonics’.

He was athletic as well, which I now consider full-fledged trickery. I knew he was from a small town… Clyde, Ohio. Where the hell is that, you ask? Believe me; you are best served not knowing. I had my doubts from the beginning, but I always made excuses. At one point, I refused to speak to him for two weeks because he said, “We was going to the bar…” UGH! You WERE going to the bar, you moron. Did you sleep through third grade English? I slowly began to realize that I was, in fact dating a hillbilly. All of his athletic skill came from playing stick ball in the sand lot and chasing squirrels for dinner. His family owned more than one tractor and his father actually rode one shirtless out to the mailbox every day, since it was a good mile down the dirt road they lived on. All 126 adults residing in Clyde worked at the Whirlpool Plant, manufacturing top-load washers and dryers.

One unfortunate afternoon, I was preparing to get ready for work at Hilljack’s house. Nobody has glass-block windows in Clyde because the nearest neighbor was miles away. I’d showered there many times without incident, so I was completely unprepared for what was about to happen. I was just finishing up the slow part of ‘Flashdance’, getting ready to bust into the disco part when I heard the most disturbing noise I’d ever heard. It was like a really angry deaf person frustrated and trying to get a point across, or being murdered… I can’t quite decide. I slowly peaked my head out from behind the shower curtain, like a soon to be horror film victim. There was a gross, black and pink thing dragging lazily across the window pane, while the awful noise persisted. I walked closer and used my hand to wipe the fog from the glass. For the love of god, it was a freakin’ cow licking the window! I screamed shrilly, continuing my horror film victim role. For good measure, I slipped on the wet linoleum tile and smacked my head on the toilet bowl, briefly knocking myself out. I was wearing Bumpkin’s mother’s shower cap, which managed to contain all of the blood spatter nicely.

When I came to, my man was standing over my naked carcass with a screwdriver since he’d had to remove the door from the frame to rescue me. Turns out, the bovine peeper was more upset than I was. It ran out into the road, which unfortunately is the only road in that crap town. The owner of the cow eventually made his way down in an attempt to coax it out of what little traffic there was. At one point, there were five or six grown men standing behind it pushing on its ass. It was as if it was saying, “Just let me die! I will never recover from what I just witnessed.” After all of the cowpokes became exhausted, they made a decision to call the Game Warden. I’m so clueless, I thought there was about to be some sort of heroic cattle rescue effort. It was 2 o’clock, and evidently 126 people were due to be leaving the Whirlpool plant in about an hour. The way we fix this problem, come to find out, is to shoot the cow in the base of the brain stem with a bolt gun. We can’t risk tying up the only road in Clyde at rush hour! I was sobbing hysterically because that god-damned cow obviously just committed suicide after seeing me naked. How exactly am I to bounce back from that self-esteem killer? Worse still, how the hell could I even consider eating meat after that? Don’t get me wrong… I love being carnivorous. I just didn’t want to take a chance on having THAT cow end up on my hamburger bun. The lessons here are simple ones, don’t let hotness be a distraction and glass block windows are a must. You never know what’s lurking in the shadows. A life quite possibly could have been saved that day.


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About the Broad

A humorous look at dating in your mid-thirties and the other hilarious things that happen around us on a daily basis.

September 2010
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