Snap, CRACK, and Pop?

I haven't been to the grocery store in eons. Well, what seems like eons anyway. It's probably more like days. Irrelevant. Onward. Every morning, I've gotten used to havin' myself a little bowl of crunchies and milk - usually of the twigs and gravel variety, very grown-up of me - before I jet off to work.

This morning, upon opening the cereal cabinet door, I of course instantly: 1) remember that I ran out of cereal yesterday, and 2) remember that I had told myself not to forget to pick up some more on my way home. Well, I didn't FORGET, I just didn't remember that I had told myself not to forget until just then. Gah! Anyway! All was not lost, as I had done some Betty Crockering here a week ago and had bought some cheap-o, knock-off Rice Krispies to make cookies with. Eh well, I'll just eat a bowl of that.

Minutes later, happily munching away on my noisy breakfast, I happen to casually glance at the cereal box. La-dee-da, just checkin' things out, of course the box looks mostly like the branded version of the stuff, with WAIT, WHAT?! one ... little ... exception.



Notice anything suspicious?! Maybe that the Hy-Vee crispy kids are CRACKED OUT??!! Look at the sugar-induced high they're on! They have that trippy grin, and their eyes are all wonky like they've been to see the Magic Man. They look like they've spent a little too much time partying in H-town with LiLo and Britney. Somebody get those Hy-Vee kids to rehab. Snap, CRACKle, Pop indeed.

Some days are diamonds.

And the day THIS happened was NOT a diamond sort of day.



That is, unless you know the story. Which truly IS a gem.

It is almost time for our spring cows to start calving. And when that happens, you typically want to have them in a smaller field that's close to home (so you can monitor them), with little to no access to ditches (so they don't have their calves in them). So, we were bringing a group of pregnant ('bred') cows home from an acreage that's about 12 miles away.

How exactly do we do that? Well, with this bitty trailer, circa 1976-ish. One of my dad's favorite phrases is, 'You can't HAVE any money if you SPEND all your money.' Or any number of variations thereof, all meaning: Read my lips, no new trailer. So it's almost like this trailer is an elderly relative in our family. We've had it longer than I've been around. It's seen quite a few things in its lifetime, including many, many State Fairs. Which makes me glad that it's a non-speaking member of the family. :) Anywho, it doesn't hold many cows, so it takes us a few trips back and forth to get all the girls moved.

We had gotten the cows in, and made one trip home already, getting along fairly well - no escapees from the lot, no human injuries (physical or emotional) - however, one cow had jostled around and put her butt through a panel in the back of the trailer. Eh, no biggie, we'll just take the gate out from the inside of the trailer, and wire it to the outside! Voila! All better. We'll have to weld the panel back on when we get time. Now for Trip #2.

Dad was on his cell phone with his boss. Not unusual, he was providing a DEFCON 3 Situation Update on all things pertaining to meat. Or something. We were going about 40 miles per hour on blacktop, heading into some hills, when I heard a dull 'snap', and dad slows the truck to a halt at the top of a hill. I had no idea what had just happened, so I was looking around to see. Then dad jumps out of the truck, and chases a WHEEL that's rolling across the road, halfway down the hill, and into the ditch on the other side. I followed suit, grabbed the wheel from him (which he had just scorched his hand on, 'cause it was SUPER HOT), careful not to touch the hot part, duh, :) and carried it back to the truck, dad gesturing to me to put it in the back. The wheel had come off the trailer, but upon further inspection, the wheel in front of it was still fine and was holding the trailer about 2 inches off the road.

We leaped back into the truck, started slowly limping home, and prayed. Well, at least I did.

Dad was still on his cell phone. THROUGH THIS WHOLE ORDEAL!!! Wheel coming off the trailer, chasing it down the hill, burning his hand, getting back in the truck and starting off again ... his voice did not change one single bit. This, the man who gets red-faced and worked up watching football games between Nobody State and I Don't Care U!! But not this time. Cool as a cucumber. In-cred-ible.

Thank the Lord, we did manage to get home with the cows. Phew. The only injury was to our egos, having to drive on a fairly major road with our ghetto trailer in tow. Dad's initial response: Well, I'll be darned. Looks like we'll finally have to get a new trailer.

Dad's response three hours later: Hey, this can be fixed.

:) We'll probably be taking my grandchildrens' animals to the State Fair with that trailer.

'Happy cows' huh?

Man, I wouldn't want to be one of California's 'happy cows'. Apparently when they can't make good cheese anymore, they forklift 'em off to the Great Beyond. Of course, I make you a bet that those guys working there were paid close to minimum wage, and told to get as many cows into that plant as possible, as quickly as possible. I'm sure they were just thinking they were being resourceful. You get what you pay for, though, I suppose.

When things like this happen, though, I couldn't be prouder of the way we do things on Broken B. I know EXACTLY how our cattle are treated, because I'M the one doing it (and by 'I', what I mean is 'my family and I'). In fact, when we have to hire extra hands to help, the first consideration we have is how that person will work with our cows. Hey consumers, when you get tired of buying beef that's had God-only-knows-what done to it, let me know. There's no better looking, healthier, happier cows, and no better tasting, more humanely raised beef than what comes off the rolling hills of Broken B Farms.

It's art! Mostly.

Tax. The word inspires sweaty brows, twisted stomachs, and general panic in most folks I know. But you put a fancy little suffix on it, and it brings a whole new sort of frenzy ... yeah, I'm talkin'bout taxidermy. Dried, stuffed medals of honor on display.

I can't lie, I personally (and sadly) don't have any such trophies to call my own. Maybe someday. But I do know many, many, ... many people who have them adorning their walls. And I have to think that the addictive quality of having things taxidermied must be similar to getting a tattoo. Once you get your first tattoo, all you can think about is your NEXT tattoo, right? Well, taxidermy must be similar, because most times when you're in a house and you see one beast, fowl or fish glued to a board, there is a great possibility you'll see more.

And honestly, most times, I do believe that good taxidermy is truly an art. I don't know all that has to go into it, but I know the artist has to have the ability and talent to paint, has to have an eye for form, and has to have some creativity to do it well. (TRUE STATEMENT: There IS such a thing as BAD taxidermy. Don't worry, you know it when you see it.)

But today, through an ENTIRELY unrelated search, I stumbled upon this site. If anyone is looking for a one-of-a-kind Valentine's Day gift for their sweetheart, be sure to check out the muskrat feet earrings. Good or bad, this girl has definitely found a niche.

A weird one.

Grammar Humor

toothpastefordinner.com

Joe Arpaio for President!!

I betcha nobody rides in to Phoenix thinking they're gonna be the new sherriff in town! You've got to love a creative hard-nose like this guy.