Levi Must

Ariva Derchi Compagno
What more can one say?
Ariva Derchi Compagno
Last week tonight today.
Ariva Derchi Compagno
Come in or going out
Ariva Derchi Compagno
Tell me whatsit all about?

Sounds ridiculous. A cow who doesn’t like milk? Not possible. Cows and milk go together like horse and carriage. You think cow, you think milk, like boat – water, pen – paper, meatball – spaghetti.

But what if some cows don’t like milk? A lactose intolerant one maybe? In some countries milk is unherd of. Not a thing.

This is the tail of one such cow, one who did not like milk. Maybe you think her name is Elsie. But it wasn’t. Her name was Cow Cow. Like blues piano player Cow Cow Davenport who wrote “Cow Cow Blues”. The “Cow Cow” in the title referred to a train’s cowcatcher.

Cowcatcher — now there’s an unfriendly concept if you’re a cow. And inaccurate as well. More of a pusher than a catcher. What’s that old saying “You can catch more flies with honey than with vinegar”? Won’t catch many cows with a cow pusher. And what good ever came from a pusher? “Goddam the pusherman” as the song said.

Regardless of the misinformation the cow in this story was named Cow Cow. And while she did not like milk she was, consciously at least, unaware of the issues with her name.

Even as a calf she knew that she did not like milk. Although it was forced upon her, as is true of many youngsters, it always made her feel unwell, making it hard to properly chew her cud. She didn’t ever really like cud to begin with. Who would?

In fact she was lactose intolerant, she could not properly handle the stuff. But it was constantly fed to her. She came to think that having a bellyache was normal, poor thing.

Then one fine June day as she was grazing placidly in a field of fresh green grass a grizzled hobo walked by along the country lane with a bottle in his hand. This was no ordinary hobo. Known among the hobo set as “Hoochie”, he was actually one of the multitude of offspring of a deranged tech billionaire, hiding out among the ever growing hobo population. Hoochie was trying to escape from the spawn of billionaire life,  which he found tiring, tedious, degrading and nastily competitive.

Hoochie in fact had a debilitating ailment — he was hypocrisy intolerant, it made him break out all over in horribly itchy welts for which there was no relief. And one thing about being wealthy, you can avoid almost anything but hypocrisy.  For this you need 150 trillion % immunity.  Yes there is a new designer vaccine for hypocrisy but it is only 38% effective on months where there is no full moon, you need tri-monthly boosters and the side effects are ghastly (e.g., your ability to lie with a straight face can randomly stop working).  

So Hoochie had taken to hanging out with the hobo crowd which was growing by leaps and bounds daily as his billionaire tech father and all his buddies were upgrading to trillionairehood in order to feel even better about themselves than they already did in the hope that their long dead daddies might finally notice how smart and special they were. Becoming trillionaires would not only ramp up the string of zeros in their bank accounts, for when you have dozens of heirs there better be a really big show to fight over.  But the main objective of limitless wealth is crushing most of the population into near starvation.  What’s the point of sitting on a pile without being surrounded by a sea of hungry people who will do anything for the faintest hint that you might, just might, flick a few flecks of dandruff off your head their way some day.  Or even just fly over in a jet and take a dump on their heads.

Although he was an aspiring hobo Hoochie never totally developed a taste for rot gut booze, growing up on Grande Cru orange juice and XO XO XO oatmeal. While the bottle he clutched looked like $2.50 Flin Flon Flash it actually contained Louis XIII Rare Cask Cognac which sells for $78,500 at the liquor store. Pretty smooth stuff: a”centennial tierçon of eaux-de-vie with a richness and intensity never encountered before and an exceptional 43.8 degrees ABV.”

This morning in the warming sun Hoochie was plumb tuckered out after a night in a rattling cold boxcar. The soft warm green grass and droning bees suddenly overcame him and he slumped down next to the fence and began dozing peacefully right by the grazing Cow Cow.  She noticed the shiny bottle that lay next to Hoochie from which the Rare Cask Cognac was dripping into the grass and was intrigued.  What was that smell??   Completely beyond her experience – “a uniquely exceptional aromatic profile, inimitable complexity. The emotional intensity and fascinating mahogany hues brought into light as a result of the combined forces of Time and Nature acting through an endless number of interwoven cycles.”  As if a veil had dropped from her eyes Cow Cow was transfigured.  She felt almost calved again into a new world of possibilities.  The attraction overwhelmed her, all sense of  rationality and restraint fell away as she began licking the amber elixir dripping into the grass.  She lifted the bottle in her mouth,  raised her head and let all the remaining golden liquid pour down the hatch in one ecstatic swallow. 

Sadly, and predictably, this taste of the good life did not work out well for Cow Cow.  Used to munching without restraint on rolling fields of green, her newly woken hunger led to a string of clumsy liquor store robberies, always disappointing because they only stocked VS Cognac at best, barely a feint glimmer of the glory of the Louis XIII that fate had flashed for a moment before her simple bovine eyes.  She was soon apprehended and ended up in the meat section, not even remotely of the quality that would interest Hoochie,  who, tiring of playing the peasant, had another faceover and went on a course of the latest most promising anti hypocrisy meds. 

As the song says “Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da”.   

Eshteemed friends,  I have the great honor to present to you today the latest most respected most highly pooblished most acclaimed expert on atmosshperic everysing, the eminent:

Herr Docktor Mr. Alkes P. Midity.  The lasht remaining employee of the Department of Environment Regulation and Protection (not including of course the Vroom Vroom Cleaning Girrls).

By all the laws of physics plus all the looks of quissics it seemed that Many in the assembly had never heard of the upcommer scientist.

WHO? shouted a number in the audience.  WHO? WHO? Who’s Midity?

HOO HOO HOO MIDITY? began a rumbling rolling chorus.

When this chant fizzled the audience began anew:

Does he got no liquidity?
This Professa Hoo Midity?

Got no liquidity Professa Hoo Midity?
Got no liquidity Professa Hoo Midity?
Got no liquidity Professa Hoo Midity?

Someone shouted “Ah go back to Flatbush Professa.  This aint Noo Joisey”

The Master of Seramonies settled the crowd down.

“Yas, exactly so my thriends, Who Midity?  Indeed.  Who? By the chin chin chin of my licey dicy beard,  Herr Professor Doktor Who Midity”.

Thunderous applause.  The audience was warming up, expectant.

Vat’s the latest Herr Docktor?

The latest HAIR? latest HAIR?  The audience picked up the chant.

HAIR, HAIR HAIR?

Givus the latest Givus the latest

Givus Givus

Givus the latest

At last the diminutive man stood up and approached the lectern.  Searching through the pockets of his weskit :

“My Glosses, my glosses.  Vere are my glosses?

Can somevun just please help me find my glosses?”

“Professa, Professa they’re caught in your BEARD” howled the audience.

Hare them,  hare them , others chimed “They’re caught in your Beard Professa.

Your glossses professa.
Your glossses.
Your glossses.  Your glossses.
You can’t take such losses.

Then the chant switched to :

Midity Midity The Beast of Timidity
Midity MidityThe Prince of Stoopidity
Midity Midity The Stoop of Perfidity.

Finally this chant too petered out.  Audience members started to text each other on their devices.  Their phones.  Their watches. Their Nostril Misters.

Their APPLE™ gear shifters. Their META™ virtual assholes.

“Where are you?

“I’m at a weirdo convention.  Don’t know how I got here. I was going to a Harbor Freight Might Work Might Fly Apart Chainsaw Demo but went off course.  Over.  Ten Four. This place is fulla weirdos.”

A hush fell over the hall. The Professa cleared his throat. Then in a resolute voice he declared:

“Fromige”.

Huh?  50 thousand people texted each other.

“Fromige”  the Professa repeated. And then, his voice gaining resolution:

“Fromige Frimage Scromich Skrimmage “

Someone in the second row tried it on for size:

“Fromage Frimage Scromich Skrimmage”

The chant began echoing

“Fromage Frimage Scromich Skrimmage”
“Fromage Frimage Scromich Skrimmage”
“Fromage Frimage Scromich Skrimmage ”
“Fromage Frimage Scromich Skrimmage”

At last confusion, fatigue and boredoom started to seep over the crowd.  People were fidgeting, looking around.

Then everything changed in an instant.  From behind the lectern the Professa pulled out a Harbor Freight™ Might Work- Might Fly Apart Chainsaw and, like the President of Argentina, yanked on the cord revving the machine up, filling the stage with blue smoke and eardrum splitting 140 decibels.

The audience roared.  People pulled out their devices and placed bets on whether the saw would last through the demo or fly apart. Smart money figured that this was really a Stihl™ Chainsaw disguised as a Harbor Freight™ to avoid bad publicity so the odds stacked in favor of the saw working.

But the smart bet was wrong this time, the chain flew off the saw at full throttle. Even Stihl saws can fly apart, where are they made anyway?  Or maybe the Professa was out of his league or should have worn ear protection.  He lost his glosses, he lost his beard, people in the front rows were painted red.

Da Forma Professa was taken out on a stretcha.

The audience howled with delight.

Professa Professa We luv you professa.
Professa Professa We luv you professa.

Professa Professa We luv you professa.
Professa Professa We luv you professa.