Moo cows! I mean the fact that she was even talking to me (an inanimate plastic buffalo, incapable of communication) was alarming on it’s own, but her decision to use names like “moo cow”, let me know that there might be a few screws loose.

I had spent the entire trip buried inside her purse, forced to stare at Kleenex, hair accessories, and feminine hygiene products, unsure of our destination or purpose, only to be pulled out, held out in front of live stock, and told “Moo cows.”

This was the kind of thing that I was sure I would have to start getting used to.

When the girl found me under the bleachers at her high school football game, I was simply happy to be free of the stench of half consumed hot dogs, spilled sodas, and used condoms baking in the afternoon sun, but after having to sit and listen to her talk baby talk for hours at a time, day in and day out, I started to long for those days on the sidelines. At least there, when the wind rolled me onto my back, I might catch a glimpse up a young girl’s skirt. At least there I would be free of being treated like an infant human.

“Moo cows!” Fuck that pissed me off! I mean, it’s bad enough being made of plastic, never able to run, talk, or participate in a game of cricket, but to be brought to a farm and treated like this was just cruel.

When she decided that she (and I) had seen enough, I was returned to my place amongst the contents of her purse, and we were on our way home.

If I wasn’t made of plastic, and had the necessary digestive system, I would have taken a giant buffalo shit right there on her uncapped flamingo pink lipstick.

“Look! Moo cows!”

Look! Patronizing bitch!