I groped a calf and asked it change for the subway. It was like a dream. I had little experience with calves on public transit, but here they were now, barnyard animals on the TTC, and I was put off. The beast had followed me down the steps in through the doors of the first subway car. It was a Sunday afternoon, ie prime milking weather. I was never one to grope a strange animal, but it was Ramadan and I was feeling like a newborn handson agriculturalist. The calf squealed when I lifted his tale. He shot me a toothy grimace and all four stomachs rumbled at once. “Mind your fingers, pleb,” he said to me. Now this was a snooty calf.
I wondered, what made animals talk: was it global warming? Was it the general entropy and decadence of Western civilization? Maybe it was the civil rights movement, but no, that was so cliché. Maybe it was the environmental movement, combined with the resumption of NHL play after a lengthy and purgative lockout. That would make even the tiniest squirrel chatter, snicker or hum a few bars of Chopin (Assuming squirrels were cultivated; but no, they kept eating my garbage).
The calf’s name was Heisman Solway Gluckstein Cowffeirbull. This calf was snooty, and, strangely, he was Yiddish. “Funny you’re not Calfolic,” I joked, but his nonplussed grunting nullified my wordplay. I looked at my wristwatch, it was covered in calf's milk. Then I realized something quite disastrous: male calves don’t have udders. One glance at the grin on Cowffeirbull’s face made me realize I had done him too great a favour. I looked at him in disgust and made a loud puking noise. “I’m getting off here,” was my ejaculation as I made for the subway door. “Me too” said the calf, but I half-expected that retort. I spurted from the car at Dundas West - Cowffeirbull was left to his lethargy, and I left to 'hoof it' two extra stations. Late for my waxing appointment was I, but so what: I had escaped another bovine subway pervert.
["classic tale of alienation - Kafka or KalfKow?"]