Bullshit

BULLSHIT

It had been a struggle to survive the past year, where had I found the energy? God Knows! I slipped off into a strange weird sleep, half conscious but also aware of the sounds and movements around me. My neck was along the arm of the chair, sweat had stuck my forehead to the soft shiny leather and it almost felt the bovine was still living inside this creature comfort. The dream took me back to the reality of my first job.

I had left school in 1981 with no qualifications, thrown into a Tory underworld of unemployment and deprivation. I walked through the school gates into a big wide world of Margaret Thatcher's dreamland.

On a midsummer day I joined the queue at the local careers office, each one of us had an interview to secure a work placement on what was called a government scheme. This was only for six months, working for peanuts for some twat of an employer, who just used you for cheap labour, then got a fresh one once your time was up. It was Thatcher's way of tackling the 3 million unemployment problem.

The over crowded classes of school had taught me long and hard about interview techniques, clean shoes, tie and shirt, yes Sir, no Sir, three bags fucking full Sir. What they didn't teach me was that I was only a little number in a big directory of other doomed school leavers. We was a lost generation that would eventually go to become the modern scourge of society, the pimps, prostitutes, armed blaggers, dole cheats and residents of Her Majesties five star fucking prisons, etc,etc, I could go on and on.

The pin-striped interviewer never raised his head, didn't once look me in the eye as he smirked away at my credentials from five years of abominable curriculum's and comprehensive education.

"What would you like to do as a career Mr Jacob? He sternly asked in a very robotic voice. Is this jerked cloned? I thought before I answered.

"It has always been a dream of mine to work with animals Sir I politely replied in a confident manner.

"We don't deal in dreams. We deal with jobs to be frank you get what you are given Son. There are a number of vacancies for farm hands, but as for zoo keepers, or veterinary surgeons you have got no chance with that brain, son. I suggest that you carry on dreaming. Oh Jesus, this life is going to be hard, I thought!

Feeling very down hearted with my working life already, I settled for a job at Sunnybank Farm. This was the closest farm to where I lived, four gruelling miles away, over the other side of the mountain. I was to be there at 7.30am the next day.

Morning had come after a long night of restless nervous sleep. I put on an oversized donkey jacket, emblazoned on the back in bright yellow, NCB (National Coal Board), this was left over from a closed down mine, kindly given to me by my redundant step father, along with a pair of steel toe-capped Wellingtons. He giggled when I had put them on. My mother made me a packed lunch of egg sandwiches, all compacted into an old ice-cream container; I could still smell the stale vanilla as I delved in to check what was on offer.

The walk to the farm was an arduous one a long windy lane, shaded by a canopy of assorted trees. Only a little light shone through from the morning sun. When I came to a crossroads or a fire break, I could see a cloudless blue sky; it felt so warm away from the chilly, dark tunnel of the damp old lane. Perfect weather for my first day at work, with an extra spring in my step, given to me by the sky, I hurried along. I didn't want to be late on my first day, must make a good impression.

I had no formal interview with the farmer for this job, it was all sorted over the phone by that clone in a suit and the farmer, whose name was funnily ironic, Giles Cullimore. I was to meet him at 7.30am at his farm cottage.

I was now there walking up to his courtyard and felt quite nervous. At the front of the cobbled premises, dogs were barking, cows were mooing and chickens were making the sound chickens normally do. Looking down; already the soles of my wellies were covered with manure and my stomach was heaving at the fresh smell of farming odours.

The door to the farmer's cottage was very wide with blackened iron brackets' criss crossing the solid oak muntin and rails. Each panel wore a shining horse shoe and in the centre was a solid brass knocker in the shape of a bull's head, which was about the size of my clenched fist. The knocker was warm from the morning sunlight. The rays were beating down on this cobbled cottage, with its glass panes reflecting light across the open field down yonder, (farming slang). I place my fingers on the two short horns that were to lever the knocker, pulling it back, then release to give a little gentle tap. Noise resounded into the farmhouse, with great effect.

I waited, listening for movement behind the door; I could hear the scuffling of boots, then a loud rasping of a latch, slowly the door creaked open to reveal, the unwieldy figure of Mr Giles Cullimore. His face was scorched with an earthly brown tan, endured from days of toil on the land, open to the ever-changing elements of the weather. On each side of his eyes, lines like crows feet nestled like mud cracks in an arid river bed. If he smiled, I guess his face would shatter into a thousand pieces. On his head was a flat cap, with a greasy dirty brim, grey hay like coloured hair stuck out like a tangled birds nest. He was all I imagined him to be, except he wasn't smoking a pipe.

There was no formal introduction as he leant over and grabbed my two upper arms and squeezed tightly with his shovel sizes hands. I yelled out in white heat pain as my sinews felt like they were going to burst out from beneath my skin. If only I could've moved, I would've planted one on his wide angled chin, or chins. He was too tall anyway, lucky man!

"Come in and sit down while I have my breakfast, I'll soon get some meat on those chicken legged arms of yours, hard work you need, I've been up since 4.30am milking the herd.

Giles the stiles didn't talk, he howled and scowled as the egg was dripping down his chin all the way to his thick woollen jumper. It was probably bought from Oxfam for twenty pence, times being so hard. What with the price of wool and the rattling of knitting needles, his Mrs didn't have the time knit. She would be too busy trimming the hedges and slopping out the pigs. Talking of pigs, Giles was on his forth egg already. The chickens must be working on overtime to keep him clucking.

"If you're as competent as the other lad, you've got nothing to worry about; I didn't want to let him go. I couldn't make ends meet with another wage packet to fork out, so opted for another six mother. "Why are farmers renowned for being tight fisted bastards? I thought.

Hate was a word that very rarely crossed my mind, but looking at this personality it was implanted firmly by the time he was onto his fifth oval.
I thought about the poor lad who had just yesterday walked down the same path I just came up. All the poor buggers hope of a full-time job and a decent wage packet, dashed by a date on a calendar and a tight fisted fucking farmer! Giles was using Maggie's little incentive scheme to its full capability. This heartless man was riding on the waves of conservatism. Which seemed to me, made the rich, richer and the poor, poorer?

My dream had reached its fruition. I was finally working with animals, a human one.

"So what's your name lad?

Telling him my name was a pointless episode¦ kind of knew that once I told him, because it would never be used again, only to mock the femininity. The Welsh border collie that sat underneath his long pine table had the same call sign as I, probably a whistle or maybe If I was honoured or in close quarters, it would be boy or lad. The dog sat on the smooth flag stones which lined the kitchen floor, "here boy, I called. He looked up at his master with sorrowful eyes, hoping for a pardon to get a little affection. Giles kicked the poor dog's abdomen to send it skidding along the floor. His claws screeched on the stone, trying hard to stop the collision against the solid skirting board. "He's a working dog! Not a bloody pet. Giles shouted. The farmer didn't blink an eye when the poor dog yelped.

"Not today, Shep. I quietly muttered.

Giles then got up, picked up his mug and washed down the half a dozen eggs with milky warm tea, the heavy pine chair moved back, his jumper now resembled a Sunflowers by Van Gogh, and that's no yolk!

"I hope the egg artist gets salmonella, was my thought, as I winked to Shep; he winked back and gave a wry doggy smile. I wonder if the dog thinks the same. John Noakes would have a fit if this happened to Blue Peter Shep.

Shall we get cracking? I'll show you round and give you the rights and the wrongs, do's and don'ts and all the other codes of the country. This is mainly a dairy farm, the herd of milkers I have here, been the envy of all the counties, they have! No-one, not no-one, do you hear Son? Can produce the yearly yield that I do.

We jumped into a green brown land rover and sped down the track to a pasture enclosed by hedgerows. Inside the field was about fifty black and white Friesians all with the same wedged like shape, cloned by scientific breeding. It was an alien site, something like the Henry Moore sculptures I read about in my art classes. Think they are up in Milton Keynes, Concrete cows spread across a field to create quite a surreal setting. But these bastards were like mechanical milking machines, chomping and ruminating away to fill their fours stomachs. Cows had come a long way in this new age.

The Hindus worshipped these mystical animals as gods. What would Krishna say if he seen this?

Leaning against the gate, Giles gave me the most important rule of farming.

"Listen here, make sure, you securely shut the gates after you boy, each one of them is worth four thousand pounds a year to me. When the milk dries up I can fatten them for prime beef. At this moment they are squirting out no less than 3000 gallons each per year, of the highest quality low fat milk, so watch your back with the gates, or you'll get fucking sacked.

It made me feel quite sad and glum, looking out over this black and white army chewing away at what was left of the summer pasture. All with miserable expressions, no glee shining out of their black onyx eyes, just trapped in the ever increasing food chain of British economy. If only I could make them shrink and gather them all up in the palm of my hand; then set each one down into a little village in central India. In a place where they would get the utmost respect, with the freedom to roam wherever they desire for the rest of their days. No fattening up for the butchers knives!

Giles the stiles, then took me to the cow shed where the milking took place, it surprised me! The bright lighting and cleanliness; I had always thought these places to be dark, damp and full of shite. Black rubber hoses wormed out from these big bulbous glass receptacles banked along each side of the walls. I was expecting the smell of excrement, but I was hit by a strong smell of disinfectant which reminded me of a hospital ward. The floor was covered by a smooth screen of concrete and at the end of each milking shift a motorised scraper frees the shed floor of all the cow pats and piss, pushing it all into a great steaming swimming pool at the back of the shed. This was called a slurry pit, it was up to 3 metres deep in places, Giles said that in the summer months it cakes over and was worse than quicksand. The faeces would eventually be put in a spreader and crapped back into a ploughed field. It was great for growing crops such as oats, mangolds and kale, all of which made good fodder for the sad eyed cow. What an animal! They eat their own shite!

Thanks for enlightening me Giles! The biggest danger on this farm seems to be his driving; I contemplate this as my head bounced off the aluminium roof of his rattling rover. Oh, wish I was back in the safety of my classroom.

"This is my prized asset boy, he's called Nelson! Jesus wept! Nelson stood stocky and stoical, pulling away at the graze with his sharp front teeth, his muscles rippling like waves in a gale force sea. This was one fierce shagging machine, if bulls could be charged with rape this fucker would be public enemy number one and leave any ripper in his trail.

"He got a prick longer than your arm son, his spunk can shoot 20ft and blind you if it hit you in the eye, I'd challenge any poncy Spanish fairy in his tight clinging pants to be a matador with my Nelson. Try teasing him with a little red cloak, he wouldn't maul or trample you to death¦ He'd bugger you until he'd knocked the back end right out of you boy. Giles boastfully explained.

One shot of old Nelsons semen was worth more than my weekly wage, it would be impossible to estimate the number of calves he had produced over the years. His white stuff was in demand all over the county and further a field, they used it for artificial insemination; but old Giles played his cards close to the barrelled chest of his, he wouldn't let one drop go to a farm in his county. The bull and the farmer seemed to be at one with each other. I wondered if they were related.

"After dinner, boy, I want you to come down and fill his hopper with a few bales of that hay which is by the fence there. Be careful not to frighten him, he gets very hot and bothered in the mid-day sun, son.
This bloke is taking the piss!

"Right now I want you to give the vet a hand, de-horning some of the young calves. He'll be here at 10'zero clock, all you have to do is jump in the pen, catch one and hold its head between your legs, steady, so old Jones can do his work. Come on, get in the wheels, this is wasting my time, I got better things to be carrying on with!

We pulled back into the farm yard, the door opened on a red estate car and a man stepped out with a tweed hat on, Sherlock Holmes style. A long red wood pipe hung down on his greying beard, he looked at me than winked at Giles. As we neared him, a slight breeze whiffed the rich sweet smell of his shag tobacco into our direction, breathing it in gave me a friendly perception of the vet. I thought then, "Why are pipe smokers so laid back, happy and mellow?

"Good morning Jones you old bastard; even though you missed the best part of it, you better get cracking on those calves, I do not want you to waste anytime, what with the extortionate fees you charge,

"And such a fine morning it is too, Giles, not long now to my summer vacation, Flo and I will be doing a Caribbean jaunt this year. Have you booked anywhere? The vet wryly, then sent another wink down to my smirking face. Giles's face reddened rapidly.

"Go with Jones and do has he tells you, do it quickly! Boy! He's paid by the hour; I don't want to give the parasite more than he's worth. I will be in the field behind the farm house, come to me when you are done. Giles stormed towards his Tractor.

I helped the vet get his tools from the car. He passed me a small red cylinder gas bottle to carry, then he picked up a large beaten leather briefcase, he then politely asked my name?

"Audrey Sir, Audrey Jacob. I didn't mind telling him, the pipe and the smile gave a sort of immediate respect for the man.

"That's a peculiar name for a boy, it's a first, do you mind if I call you Aud?

"No Sir, I'm use to that, my name has always raised eye lids. I Replied with satisfaction.

"Aud, you can call me Jim, no lets get cracking and keep scrooge off our backs, we don't want to get into trouble, it shouldn't take long.

We went over to the canopied enclosure where the calves were kept. Five fluffy friesians, playfully ran about inside. The black and white coats gleamed like a marbled chess board and the softness of the new born hair smelt of conditioned laundry. While Jim was setting up the equipment, I took the time to ask why Farmer Cullimore worried about every penny.

He nodded his head then replied. "Aud, you may not believe it, but Cullimore is the wealthiest man in Gwent, four miles of the M4 motorway from here to Cardiff was once their land, that new hi-tec business park the Japanese built was also Cullimore's land. He has a son called Henry who is studying law at Oxford and his eldest daughter Maria, lives in Chelsea with a German banker. He hasn't talked to her since the day she got married, he's a full blown kraut hater due to the fact he lost his father during the Second World War. The man has never had a holiday in his life, he trust's no-one. Shame really, all that money and he will never enjoy it. There's no heir to take over the running of the farm once he's gone, never know Aud, you play your cards right, you could end up the manager, ha-ha.

Fat chance of that, I took off my jacket ready for action. Jim lit up the brass nozzle on the end of the blow torch, it roared a deep blue flame.

"Go grab us one Aud. He pointed to the hyper active calves.
I sprinted from my blocks to the nearest calf, taking a dive towards it; I grabbed him around the neck. Digging my heels in, I tried to slow him down from darting away. He then continued to drag me all over the enclosure. I felt like a rodeo rider hanging in there for a few extra seconds on the clock, he kicked out his hind legs, hitting me smack in the shinbone. Finally letting go, I fell face down into a steaming hot, brown pissy cow pat, my stomach heaved as I felt it running into my nose. The shin was throbbing and beating as if it had a heart transplanted into it. Jim was in hysterics, holding his chest to stop it bursting, tears of salt water cascading down his cheeks.

"That's your first taste of work, ha-ha-he-he. Jim bellowed.

"Bollocks¦.Bollocks! I shut my mouth as the brown acrid urine ran between my teeth.

"Their not bullocks, yet. They need to be gelded. Jim howled.

Getting up on my feet, I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Wiping the excrement from my eyes, I glanced over at Nelson's protégé who was mooing to the other calves in victory. Jim called me over and told me to hold the blow torch, he took a hankie out of the inside pocket of his wax berger jacket to wipe away his tears.

"That's the funniest thing I've seen for many a year, watch how it's done, Aud. You were far to eager.

Jones slowly but steadily crept up on the young un's, foot steps not alarming them, they stood still, still as Henry Moores sculptured cows in a suburban Milton Keynes field. The bastard son of Nelson looked up with eyes that pronounced trust and beckoned Jim's trusting hand with a clear calm understanding. The hoofs tossed the freshly hay into the air as Jim walked him coolly towards me.

If the calf only new what awaits; the roaring torch was about to burn his boned weapons away. The horns of grace, sign of manhood, gone forever.
Here, now, friesian and vet in harmony and peace; walking towards the worst thing that would happen to him, until he meets the electric treatment of latter years, that lays him out on some fuckers dinner plate, beside a Yorkshire pudding and two veg.

Jim passed the calf to me and I gently but firmly held the fluffy head between my legs. I knelt down and grabbed his hind legs, locking him solid into a go no-where position. Jim opened up the medical case and got out a syringe filled with antibiotic, he placed it slowly into the babe's backside, then injected 5ml into the muscle. This would prevent any infection and help the little round burn holes to heal up quickly.

The blow torch had a round burning iron attached to it, when ignited it became hot enough to melt almost anything, especially infant horn. The fluffy crowned head banged a little as the torch branded its way deep into the scalp. The smell of the smoke billowed up my nostrils, making my eyes water and wince. Once finished the heifer appeared to have another set of black eyes on top of the head; Jim explained that de-horning was common procedure in modern day farming, it would stop them wounding each other in the daily scuffles. This also cut down on vet bills.

"For the rest of their days, head butting would have to be the norm. I said to Jim.

We rapidly got through the rest, without any cow pats or mishaps. Jim shook my hand and said, "Good luck, you made my day young man. As he walked towards his car, I could hear him chuckling to himself.

The time past quickly than ever before me, if only school could have made this interesting step forward. Instead they filled me with impractical indoctrinations of deaths, wars and logarithms. I wanted great peacemakers, classic novelists, impressionists and environmental issues. We were treated like the cattle in front of me. The government fucked up, big time; the only results they deserve now were total anarchy.

It was now dinner time, mooing replaced the school hooter. I sat in a haystack in the mid-day sun, the kaleidoscope glimmers passed through my lashes. Vanilla ruined the mature cheddar sarnies and my first ever flask of tea¦ stewed! The backs of my ankles were red raw from the chaffing Wellingtons. Not since the winter snow drifts of seventy six, had I experienced such chaffing. It will make the walk home agonising and the rest of the day, hard to bare. I folded the tops of the boots down a few inches, to get prepared to face my horned demon in the field up yonder.

I once had a friend who had no fear. His name was Snowy Bacon. He walked right up to this bull very similar to Nelson, and he shot him right in the eye with a pellet gun. He was expecting a thrilling pursuit, but all he got was a grunt. Not happy with the outcome, Snowy shot it again, this time in the balls. Snowy then got his pursuit.
After six months, Snowy came out of finally came out of hospital, he couldn't stand living near agriculture anymore. It haunted his dreams. Soon as he learned to walk again, he ran away to work on a gypsy fairground in Manchester. I haven't seen him since. When I was up the town a few ago, I bumped into his Grandmother and asked how he was doing? She told me, he was never the same boy, since the day he was nearly stamped and mauled to death; she said he was now a vegetarian.

I just wish the old Snowy was here now to help me put this bale of hay in the hopper, which was on the other side of the fence.

Nelson started to buck and bronk soon as he saw me heave the hay bale onto my back. I walked towards the modern, double reinforced gate that was designed to open with one hand and close itself behind you automatically. Once entering the field, it meant that I would have no escape route if I was charged, except an electric barbed wired fence!

I leant against the gate pondering my best option; I resolved to wedge the gate open fully. A proverb came to my mind, (take the bull by the horns) this gave me more nerve to show no fear. But soon as my hand reached for the gate catch, Nelson's right hoof started to dig a trench, creating a cloud of dust. His mouth dribbled and frothed with saliva, the large steel nose ring sparkled from the sun. I looked closely at his eyes and immediately froze, chilled and glued to the gate.

There was only one eye! Could this be the bull that Snowy shot?

I looked around the bushes for hidden cameras, is this being filmed for a laugh? Was a candid presenter going to pop out and save me? I pinched myself to see if I was dreaming or having a fucking nightmare!

No way, this was reality, my final hour, man time, make or break, be strong, time to fight. No fucking mercy, I opened the gate and stood my ground, staring straight into Horatio Nelsons one fucking eye. I picked up the hale bale and held it like a shield; I was a gladiator, this field, my coliseum. Audrey against Goliath, teenage drop-out against spunk merchant, come ed¦ you fucker¦meet your maker!

Nelson just stood still looking at me mystified. Oh fuck, he was looking down at my chest; I was only wearing my bright red Welsh rugby jersey!

As I glanced towards the hopper, I felt a tremor, it wasn't an earthquake! It was Nelson steaming towards me like a heat seeking missile. Now I was between the horns of dilemma and even death. There was no where to run or climb too; I thought for a split second of those drunken Spaniards running through the narrow streets of Pamplona, it was alright for them they could dive into alleyways, doorways and climb up onto window ledges. All I had was an electric barbed wire fence; and it's always your ball bags that get tangled up¦.fuck that¦I'd rather grab the bull by the horns!

I screamed as loud as my larynx could tolerate, and ran like a demented rugby winger, not to the fence, but straight towards the attacking bull prop forward; on course for a collision!

Two yards away, Nelson suddenly skidded to a halt; I tried to put my brakes on but the weight of the bale cast me forward onto the devil's horns. Letting go of the bale, I fell to the ground exhausted. My eyes locked closed, as I waited for the final minute of being gored alive like a human skewered kebab then tossed into heaven. I waited¦waited¦.nothing happened.
When I opened my eyes, Nelson was running through the gate with a bale of hay spiked firmly into his horns.

I breathed a sigh of relief, and then laughed with triumph. I felt like Don Quixote, like a fucking matador bowing in victory to the audience. Then a terrible thought struck me, Nelson couldn't see where he was going. Oh fuck!

Dashing as fast as I could run up the lane, I spotted Nelson, his one bullock swung into a right turn towards the milking shed. Out of breath I stopped. Jesus this was most definitely the bull of Snowy Bacon's fear factor!

Moo¦mooo¦.mmmoooo¦mo.. mooooooo. This was the sound I heard as I got near the shed. It was distinctly, distressing and damn right loud. There was more bellowing than a women giving birth to triplets! So bloody raucous, I first thought it was echoing out of the milking shed. But I was wrong! My worse fear, the noise was coming from the rear!

"Oh no, please don't let this be true. I shouted out, trembling with alarm.

The slurry pit suspicion was confirmed. Nelson's head stuck out of the brown gaseous pond, bale still attached to his forking horns. He was well and truly lodged, the steam rising out of the broken cracks of this giant steaming pudding.

"I've really gone and dung it now, what am I going to do? Thinking frantically as the smell of the faeces, clung to my lungs, then forced up my guts, fear and tainted vanilla sandwiches; spew gushed into the nearby hedgerow.

It would be very easy for me to walk away from this situation. My fear of Giles's reaction was telling me to do so! No¦ I couldn't do it; I wouldn't be able to live with myself if Nelson drowned. I would end up like Snowy Bacon, hiding away in some depressing city, scared of haunting dreams and visions of Nelson. In the same way Giles Cullimore hides from the outside world, stuck in his safe haven of patchwork fields. Any how, I love my steak too much! Fuck turning veggie. In the name of the bull, I will face any consequences that are owing to me!

The weight of the bale was dipping the bull head slowly down into the quagmire. I had to act quickly, so I ran like the wind, like a chariot, up to the top of the field where Giles was ploughing parallel lines. The Massey Ferguson tractor was on the other side, back facing me. Not having enough energy to run further. I stood on the gate, waiting for Giles to the tractor and face my direction. When he did, I shouted and beckoned him, arms waving in frenzied windmill style behaviour. Giles stopped the tractor, raised the plough from the soil, then raced over, wheels spinning and throwing lumps of earth in all directions. He stopped inches from the gate, opened the door, got down to terra firma and shouted. "This better be good boy! What the fuck do you want me for boy?

"Er¦the bull's¦escaped from the field. Before I could say anything else, Giles went into a rampage, a torrent of abuse, all about me being a useless piece of shit. Once he let his steam off, he said, "Go find him now.

"I know where he is Sir.., he's in¦ I tried again.

"If you know where he is, go and put him back in the fucking field, boy!

Giles was getting redder and redder!

No time to deliberate, I shouted in my hardest voice, "He's in the shit, your slurry pit, right up to his fucking neck in it! How poetically pronounced, I thought; tears rolled down my cheek, as the frantic farmer scurried into the tractor and darted down the curvy lane.

By the time I got to the pit, Giles had foolishly dived in! He was sitting on top of Nelson, looking like an Asian Rodeo Rider, slipping and hanging onto Nelson's ears. He was head to toe covered in khack. It is a sight that I will never forget, as long as I live. I took great pleasure in teaching the farmer some simple manners and respect that day! I was after all, his life line.

After Giles said, "Please, for the 100th time, then a few cheeky, I threw him the rope. He dived underneath Nelson and looped it around the torso. Giles looked totally browned off, once he got back on top of Nelson.

After he said, "Pretty please, for the 200th time, I tied the rope to the tractor; I walked away as Giles pulled himself slowly to the shits edge.

I skipped and giggled all the way home, singing the Bob Dylan song, "I ain't gonna work on Maggie's farm no more. Satisfaction took away the pain of the wellies!

That was the last time I ever saw Giles and Nelson. A few years later, I returned to Sunnybank Farm, just out of curiosity I suppose.

I knocked that solid door again; it was answered by a young guy who said he was the manager. He told me that Giles retired a couple of years ago. Now when he's not spending time with his grand children, he and his wife spend most of their time cruising round the world.

Who ever said the phrase, "You can't teach an old dog new tricks. I think that is bullshit! Literally!

Oh and by the way, Nelson ended up on a dinner plate somewhere; you never know you may have eaten him. I know one thing, for sure, Snowy Bacon never!!!

The End