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“Cowshed” and Cow Sheds
Have you noticed the new brand of toiletries called “Cowshed?” I saw it advertised in one magazine or another a few days ago, and then, in the little lavatory on an airplane just, I came across the item itself: next to the sink stood two bottles, one of soap and the other of cream, both labeled “Cowshed.”
As it happens, I have some experience of cow sheds — or, rather, of one particular cow shed, which stood a few paces from the tiny cottage I rented for a year on the outskirts of Oxford. That cow shed housed an enormous bull and a couple of cows, who every day produced gallons of manure and urine from one end and, from the other, of mucous, which streamed from their noses unendingly.
It was, as I say, just a single cow shed; but, cows being cows, I believe it displayed sights and odors that all cow sheds must share. And here is my point. No one who had ever encountered a real cow shed, or who had ever even heard a just description of a cow shed, would ever, ever have given the name of “Cowshed” to a line of toiletries.
First people moved off the farm—whereas a century ago, a majority of workers in the United States was employed in agriculture, now agricultural labor accounts for only two or three percent of the workforce. And then people forgot farm life so completely that they could be persuaded to suppose that the words “cow shed” ought to conjure up notions of fragrance, not feces.
Progress. I’ll take it, I suppose, but it can be very odd.
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Yep, heatstroke and heat exhaustion were always lurking nearby.
I saw one of my classmates get knocked down by a steer he was getting ready to show. His legs went out from under him and he hit the back of his head on a gate before it hit the ground. Unfortunately, his head landed in a fresh batch of cowshed. He was a bit stunned and the cowshed must have felt warm running down the back of his neck, because his first words were, “I’m bleeding.” My old buddy Ace looked at him and says “Yeah, we always thought you were full of it, now we know for sure.”
I wonder if this stuff attracts amorous bulls. Has the government issued a product warning?
The most important thing to remember about haywagons is when one starts to tip over, bail out from the side going up.
When I was very young, my father was stationed at a little Air Force base in France called Phalsbourg. We lived maybe 10 miles away in Saverne, France. This would have been in the late 50’s. I can still remember looking out the back window of our apartment, and seeing the French going along with their pitchforks behind a horse-drawn cart, throwing hay up on the cart.
Still better than calling it something like Piggy Potpourri.
Had an uncle who raised pigs and the odor was terrible. Horse and cows aren’t so bad, but pigs are unmistakable.
Nonetheless, my uncle often quipped, “what’s your problem? Smells like money to me!”
I’m not sure the marketing people thought the name “Cowshed” through. Say it out loud, and it sounds pretty close to something produced by cows that isn’t milk. Say it out loud fast, three times, and you’ll see what I mean.
Those inclined to view profits as nothing but filthy lucre would not argue with that…
Maybe “Clueless” would get the point across more effectively? :-D
Third world diseases are the worst. I was down to 82 lbs at 5’0″ Somebody do the math and figure out if I looked more emaciated than @rightangles.
I hate cows worse than coppers.
I hate cows. Back in the day when my husband and I would vacation via motorcycle, he would honk to get their attention, then I would flip them the bird.
It seems like a natural progression given that BS has been masquerading around for the longest time as political discourse or, even worse, main-stream journalism.
Probably the same Madison Avenue joker who named the Japanese milk based soft drink cowpiss. I don’t remember how it was spelled. Marketed here it’s called it calpico. My kids liked it. I could never get passed the name.
Escargot by any other name is still a snail.
I grew up on a hog farm, so I guess I’m biased. But I don’t think hogs smell all that bad. Poultry barns are awful. Urban alleys behind restaurants are worse. I’ve washed dishes in a lot of restaurants – trust me on that one.
I nearly died of Dengue fever in Mali when I was about 25. I don’t remember about 10 days, which is ok, because what I DO remember was absolutely horrible. I didn’t know it was possible to feel that bad.
Our zoo once had a Wendy’s fast food place on site, and we had a patio. I kept that patio clean for 1 summer. There is nothing like restaurant trash, no matter the source. In my case I went home every day smelling of ketchup, coffee, burger grease, mayo, and frosties fermented in the 90+ weather we had that year. I’m telling you, mixing all that together in a trash can, then leaving it on a brick patio in 90 degree sun for even an hour, and you have something that just clings to you when you have to empty those trash cans. I swear I smelled like a dumpster all that summer.
No, but strangely my essays have such an effect. I’m perfecting a custom font to enhance the allure and calling it: Bullship.
Tomatoes and potatoes don’t age well.
I once helped clear out a warehouse. When the dumpster got full, I climbed in to compact it. No food, thankfully.