This essay Cow Lore has a total of 2216 words and 13 pages.
A long... long time ago, in a distant galaxy, was the planet "Cud". On
this ancient planet lived the warlike race of the Cowfolk, a race of people
who had evolved and broken into two major groups. The first group, the
"Beefers", were a very rough and barbaric race. They were the type who
enjoyed loud music and a mug of ale, with a serving wench on their lap...
even the women. Their leader, known as "Mike The Big Tough Guy" was a
large man of great poundage. He had unkept hair that flew wildly in the
wind, and a cute, wellgroomed moustashe. The Beefers worked hard and
played hard... and smelled.
The tavern was alive with music, the thumps of dancing and clapping,
and cheers of joy. Their steeds, consisting mostly of Longhorn and Black
Anguses, mooed calmly outside, having had their reigns tied to those
horizontal postthings you see in all those western movies. Mike pushed the
serving girl from his lap and awkwardly staggered to stand atop his table.
The music and dancing immediately stopped in respect.
"If it\'s a war the Milkers want," he slurred, tipping this way and
that, almost losing his balance. "Then it\'s a war they\'ll get." His
statement was met with a round of deafening cheers, which soon died back
down. "You are all people of war... and when we clash tomorrow, I want you
to do what you do best. I want you to destroy whoever gets in your way."
Another round of cheers exploded, then died down. "Tomorrow, milk will be
released from the confines of their bodies... it will flow through o\'er the
plains like a river... and will dye the moon white!" He held up his large
tankard of ale to the ceiling. "We will show our true selves to The Great
One In The Sky... we will show our Lord, the mighty Black Angus, that we
are worthy of him! To YOU, my Lord!" Mike lowered his arm and swilled the
remainder of the ale. With the backward tossing of his head causing
unconsciousness, Mike lost his balance and fell backwards, crashing down
heavily onto a nearby table, cracking it in half. The tavern broke into
wild cheers of excitement... Mike had aroused their carnal lust for milk,
and they poured out of the small inn and into the dark streets, almost
tasting the upcoming hour of battle.
The second, the Milkers, were a much more gentle people. They only
warred when they absolutely had to, and prefered to spin yarn, play their
lutes, and had a habit of wandering aimlessly about the town, reciting
poetry. Love and nature were constantly in the air, even on the brink of
"But will it HOLD?" Fred asked the blacksmith. Fred The NotSoStrong
But Very Nice And A Swell Person was the official leader. His people
wanted to add "Good Smelling" to his name, but decided that such a length
would just be plain silly.
"Aye, it\'ll hold," the blacksmith snapped back, almost sounding
offended. "I\'ve been using this armour for as long as IÜjúúúúúÜcan
remember, and it\'s never done me wrong before." They were looking over one
of the plates used in the armour for the cows when they go into battle.
Tradiationally, the armour would consist of several plates, covering almost
the entire body of the cow. The udders, being on of the most sensitive
parts of the beast, would have a coating of chainmail lying under a coat of
platemail. "Go on," the blacksmith encouraged Fred. "Go on, take your
best shot at it."
Fred looked at the blacksmith for a moment before taking a step back,
drawing a mace from a nearby wall, and striking the armour with all his
force. Colourful sparks flew from the point of impact, but upon
inspection, the armour remained completely unscathed.
"Very impressive," Fred said, stroking the point of impact with his
fingers to feel for any damage, of which he could find none. "Very
"And you ask if it\'ll hold," the blacksmith mocked him.
"Well, that first sword you made me snapped in half when I tripped over
it," Fred explained, standing up straight.
"That\'s got nothin\' to do with it," the blacksmith yelled. "It was
faulty metal, I tell you... NOT my work... look, the Beefers are likely
going to attack at dawn. DO you, or do you NOT want my armour?" Fred
stayed silent for a moment.
"Of course I do," Fred said. "And your payment will arrive by your
waking time tomorrow."
"So be it," the blacksmith said, turning and continuing to hammer out
the large sheet of redhot
Topics Related to Cow Lore
Boston in fiction, Cheers, Film, Sorcerer, Tomorrow, Ala, Blacksmith, Cinema of the United States, Culture
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