Hooters

Just a warning, if you're sensitive about eating meat or killing animals for meat, you probably won't like this!



Raising cows was harder than one would imagine.  We had more die than we had live, and no one was ever really sure why.  Some blamed strange and elaborately named diseases, but there was one rumor that our farmer, Dave, had placed a hex on them.  He came over often to inconspicuously get updates on their wellbeing, and anytime he heard anything negative, he would mutter “dyin’ Jerseys” under his breath, and stare outside at the hut where we kept them.  Sometimes he spit his chew in a very appealing way, in order to seal the deal.  
Regardless, through the process of natural selection (we just kept getting new calves when one died, eventually we ended up with 4 which decided they were going to live longer than a week) we managed to get our small herd to the ripe old age of 2 months.  Of course things were going all too well, so it was about time for something dramatic to happen.  
And so something did.
With horror, Crystal looked out her bedroom window one day to find one of the calves sleeping very, very still.  Despite his legs starting to stick out from his belly at odd angles, we guessed that he was only maybe an hour dead, and so we did what any logical, resourceful family would do.   
We butchered the thing.  Hey, a month old calf was just as much meat as a deer, and there was no way we were letting all that perfectly good veal go to waste.  Dad and Josey did the honors of skinning our little Conker, and he was soon hanging from a meat hook in our garage.  If you think walking out to the garage to get something out of the freezer and running into your pet cow dangling from the ceiling is weird, attempting to throw something away in the dumpster and discovering his dismembered head staring back at you was worse.
A few nights later it was time to bring out the carving knives and the band aids and get to work.  Anytime you gather our entire family together at one table and set us to some project like, say, hacking apart carcasses for future dinners, interesting and potentially funny conversations are very likely to ensue.  
See, I hate fat with a passion, so I didn’t mind at all meticulously trimming every little hunk of meat that was tossed my way.  To me, butchering is an art, not to be taken lightly or rushed.  Josey, however, had a slightly different mindset on the matter.  He had been working on one particular cut, and was really getting fed up with the whole thing.  He abruptly plunked his knife down on the table and asked crossly, "What's with all this crap I have to cut off?"
Dad quickly answered, “Son, I'm sick and tired of hearing you use the word crap.  Why do you feel like you have to say it so much?"
Josey seemed a little bummed that he never actually got his question answered, and so came up with the honest response of, “It just seemed like the word that fit.  I don't know any other ones."   
While probably true, that was most likely not the best answer he could have offered.  Dad countered with, “Well then maybe you should just copy the dictionary a few times so you can learn some new vocabulary."
Dad continued to lecture Josey for the next while about his choice of descriptive words, meanwhile us girls worked on in silence, observing the banter without comment and with the relaxed air of someone used to witnessing such conversations.  
The table fell silent for awhile, music from some radio strumming on in the background.  Mom was done being silent however, so she moved to get another conversation going.
"Who does this song that's on the radio?”, she asked.
"Marcy Playground.", I answered.
Mom scowled, "That is such a weird name.  Why do bands have such strange names?"
I really had no good explanation.  What parent would name their daughter ‘Dorcas’?  Why is every cat I know named ‘Whiskers’?  Don’t ask me to decode the mysteries of human naming logic.. I don’t get it.  Since I had no answer I decided to ask another question, instead.
"I don't know mom.  If you had a band what would you name it?"
Mom made lots of ‘hmmm’ noises before ending with, "... mm... well.... I don't know."
It seemed like a good time to move on.  "Ah.  Hey dad, what would you name your band?"  
Dad really didn’t hesitate at all before saying rather nonchalantly, "The Hooters."
I really respect his ability to keep a straight face in times like that.  He continued on nipping and cutting at his meat like he had just named his band, “Fluffy Spring Bunnies” or something else equally everyday and innocent.  I rolled my eyes.  
He seemed indignant, "What?  It would be a band of owls."
I stated the obvious, "You know darn good and well you're not talking about owls."
Crystal chimed in, "Dad I can't believe you're talking about hooters after you yelled at Josey for saying 'crap' ."
Dad appeared to be honestly getting defensive about his choice of band titles, so he defended himself with, "What?  You want to be able to say the word hooters?  Is that what this is all about?  Well go ahead, I don't care.  Say it.  Hooters.  Hooters hooters hooters hooters."
Everyone at the table began to erupt in giggles.  For some reason unbeknownst to man, my dad is always funniest when he’s upset.  It will probably always remain a mystery to me as to why that is.  
Feeling he had perhaps earned our approval somewhat, Dad went on to explain, "Well, see, I want to be able to attract a large crowd to my concerts."
I corrected him, saying, "You mean you want to attract guys."
Dad explained with an air of pride, "Well that's who's important anyway.  Besides, where there's guys, what do you think is following right behind them?"
"Farts.", Crystal stated rather passionately.  
Dad had no argument for that particular statement, so mom offered us her reasoning and final memorable comment:
"Well you know, he has a good point.  Because you know, I'm a girl, and I've been looking at hooters all my life, and they don't really do all that much for me."