Why I Love Big, Fat Cows

The Cow Is My Favourite Fucking Animal

Because what’s not to love? They make such supple yet enduring cushions for the pushin’; they are redolent of that embryonic oblivion during which we cuddled under mother’s bosom, innocently guzzling colostrum from her teat. Verily, Hindus don’t eat beef because they regard cows as being similar to their mothers in this way, or, at least, because some thoroughly asphyxiated, heavily-armed deity rides one throughout the dung heaps of Paki heaven. 

Based on all the nonplused, deer-in-Diwali-light looks we’ve received from Hindus in response to questions about their reluctance to eat beef, it appears they don’t even know. Surely it isn’t that queer a query. Who doesn’t find the mystical esoterica of religion enthralling? Angels who are fearful of black dogs, potential reincarnation as a roach, the factuality of virgin conceptions and births, why the Israelites (proto-steins, –bergs, –smiths, and –baums) deified a calf made of gold… but we digress.

It’s hard not to be envious of the innate demeanor of placidity with which cows are endowed. As one whizzes by upon leaving the squalid and crowded and smoky city, they are out there, nonchalantly chewing their cud without a care in the world. As we apprehensively tear through the open, lush, idyllic country, on a road trip to the destination of still another squalid and crowded and smoky city. Cows possess a quality so heartbreakingly inimitable, that English has co-opted and debased the word bovine—anguished with envy—giving it the additional sense of sluggish and dull.

Thousands of breeds of cattle exist, as opposed to merely hundreds of dog breeds. People are prone to producing more of the things they like; clearly we have at least ten times more affection for cows than we do dogs. Perhaps that 40,000 year old Paleolithic Picasso was trying to give us a heads up; crudely smudging the likeness of a majestic bull on the wall of a cave in Indonesia as testament to man’s long, cherished, and, nevertheless, forsaken bond with cows. If so, it’s time we heeded his message: dogs are just a pack of pesky, useless bitches; chewing up attention and resources. Cows, on the other horn, are thankless and independent providers. 

Asians get it. They’re smart.


Save for the black woman, the only animal capable of transmuting that which is seemingly worthless and ubiquitous into precious and rare bounty is the cow. Using the luscious and silky locks of impoverished Asians, adhered to her nappy scalp, the woman attracts men to sire the next generation of rappers, ball players, drug dealers, IG models, and public defender clientele. Talk about black girl magic! Conversely, merely by masticating grass, a cow can provide milk, beef, leather, motive power, more cows, manure, and glue. 

For the stuff people were planning to cut and discard anyway, cows will not only act as autonomous lawnmowers, basically yard roombas—lawnbas!—but they will pay you for their service! This is where they diverge from their human counterparts. Sha’Tanya will presumptuously demand her remittances in the forms of affirmative action, section 8 housing, and food stamps. 


Identifying a new convert to clean or green eating is done with insidious ease. They will invariably be the person boring you to tears with incessant commentary about the upturn in their subjective sense of wellbeing, since they began eating “healthy”. Furthermore, their mind will be as void about facts on nutrition as their stomachs are of actual nutrition. 

Eager to spread their withered wisdom like a viscid, trans adipose clot of Cheez Wiz on severely burnt, stiff squares of fortified bread, they proclaim that the once fetid odour of their turds has vanished since they took up the new diet; as if this were the supernal selling point of their pitch. As if to say that their doo-doo had been so rank before, that they could scarcely tolerate the miassma (sic) themselves. That their knowledge of windows and vents and matchsticks and aerosol were on par with their knowledge of nutrition.

If it’s a waste war that they are waging, a battle of belligerent bowels to be fought, the writer forthrightly declares that our most express, compact, and stupendous one-wipe dumps come after wolfing down ample servings of steak (butter basted to medium rare perfection;) not the roughage that ought to be reserved for its ruminant precursors. A fact that redounds yet, when, like the writer, one routinely shimmies out of their undies to discover that they’re covered in skid marks galore. 

Dietary ignorance has a way of causing verbal incontinence; those suffering from it are compelled to decry red meat and dairy as being antithetical to healthful eating. Champing on salads and grazing on greens are extolled, as though the digestive tracts of the afflicted were evolved to regurgitate those hardly satiating foods, much like they do the dietary platitudes they’ve swallowed whole on Instagram. We are not at all faulting them for foraging for facile, easily digestible information. Their days are spent entirely preoccupied, famished, fatigued and forever chewing, after all.

Beef and cows’ milk are among the most nutritionally-dense, most delicious foods known to man. The sweet, creamy-white goodness of full fat milk is staggeringly cheap compared to what it contains in calories and protein. An acceptable trade-off when bearing the terrifying cost of lactose-intolerance: inevitable, protracted, anus-shredding, roll-stripping dumps. After a few glasses—heck!—an entire carton, the writer becomes a wooly -headed Jesus transforming toilet water into chocolate milk at an ill-fated marriage between West African genes and lactose.

So delicious, you can eat ’em raw.


Flatus is a cavernous reserve of amusement. Better than getting a whiff of your buddy’s toots and speculating about what he may have had for lunch based on its notes and tones, is sitting in giddy anticipation as it gradually diffuses towards others within the blast radius; watching them recoil in shock and disgust, pinching their noses faire de la plongée-style, then frantically breaking for untainted air. Even better than proximal aversion, is when farts spread around the world causing ultimate, existential terror.

In their pigheaded crusade against climate change, environmentalists have singled out cow farts as being among the main sources of the greenhouse gas methane, allegedly responsible for warming up the globe. Were the average global temperature to make a minute uptick, by a few more fractions of a degree or whatever, the planet would rise up and rebel against humanity for our callous and rapacious abuses. 

We could expect natural disasters of biblical proportions. Flooding that would make Noah exclaim “OMFG!” The destruction of San Francisco (Sodom) and New York City (Gomorrah)—by sodium and water, rather than sulfur and fire—among other things, would be impending.  

In light of these dire presuppositions, with their innocent—perhaps innocuous—release of gas, cows wreak psychological havoc upon the writer’s ideological enemies, if not just those we find irredeemably annoying. Cows use something we love to inflict pain on those we hate. What’s not to love about that?


Luxury! Cool! Comfort! A supple vache leather Jane Birkin Hermès handbag, and the status with which it endows a gal diaphanously strutting to her table at some classy eatery! The swagger of a young, feral Marlon Brando in The Wild One, roaring across sunny California, astride his Triumph Thunderbird motorcycle! Cozy, intimate weekend nights, bowered in the embrace of a spouse, and better yet, the bewitchingly tender cushions of a Dulcimer Petite chesterfield sofa. 

Such things understandably elude the imagination when you’re looking at a simple, serene cow, champing away in the field. Indeed, they are there. With the covetousness that that nubile doll clutches her bag, as a thing of protection like Brando’s jacket, securely adhered to its haunches as the homebody lovebirds are to their sofa—and each other—the cow wears a hide possessed of the glorious potential to become all those things and more.  

Leather goods are delightfully durable. You can find jackets made during the 1960’s online; they’re still in fine condition. The stuff ages like Iggy Pop—the man as well as his music. Pleather and all that other junk doesn’t last anywhere near as long. 

Hypocritical freaks like the PETA people have made their business to guilt us into abstaining from using leather goods, because animals harvested for their skin are, always and everywhere, treated brutally. They push hemp and bamboo rags that drone “spaced-out hippie,” along with oil and plastic-based faux leather, over badass, body heat-conversing leather jackets. 

The fact is that most of the leather we use comes from cows that also became those nourishing, laxative steaks the writer mentioned earlier. That is to say cows don’t have their flesh stripped off while uncharacteristically shrieking, like an infant boy having his foreskin hacked off. Cattle farmers are merely making use of as much of the animal’s carcass as they can. Native Indians are romanticized as noble savages for supposedly doing the most they could with their game. Why are cattle farmers framed as barbarous industrialists? They’ve only devoted their lives to raising mankind’s true best friend, the greatest animals in the world, cows.

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