Can’t Trust Bovines

Johnson carefully folded his trusted cow, Betsy, as he had done so many times before. Using a measuring stick, he laid down fold after fold, making sure nothing would protrude beyond the confines of the suitcase, as ordinance decreed. This time, he also put on a new lock, since he discovered that, lately, Betsy had cut loose and then wasted her paltry allowance in seedy bars.

And sure enough, after Johnson came back to the motel later, he found that Betsy had picked the lock and was gone. Later, she appeared, completely drunk, dragging along an inebriated warthog.

“How did you pick the lock without opposable thumbs?” Johnson demanded to know.

Betsy just mooed cooingly, enticing the warthog for a mount.

“Wait just a minute!” Johnson shouted. “A warthog? I wouldn’t have minded an ass, but a warthog?”

The warthog, with a hurt look on his warty face, said, “Sorry, sir, that I don’t attain the lofty pinnacles of your expectations. However, I can help you out with your problem.”

“Problem? What problem.”

“Well, I’m a professional cow-folder and I’ve been helping out a lot of people in similar predicaments.”

“No kidding!” Johnson exclaimed happily. “Well, let’s tuck ‘er in.”

In blinding speed, with professional efficiency, the warthog folded Betsy into the suitcase and locked it. Then, they both went back to the bars and got roaring drunk.

The next day, Johnson waking up at noon, to his horror, discovered that he had been terminated from his sales job, due to his hangover and him missing several appointments. Disappointed and dejected, he stumbled down to the lobby where the warthog was waiting for him.

“Got fired, didn’t you?” he grinned. Knowing that Johnson lacked money because he had paid for drinks all night, the warthog offered to buy Betsy from him.

“What the hell,” Johnson said and agreed. “Who needs milk from a cow when you can have alcohol.”

“Attaboy,” the warthog replied. He then hit him with a chair and stole his wallet.

Don’t trust warthogs was Johnson’s mantra from then on. However, he wondered for a long time how members of the bovine and swine family could manage all these feats without opposable thumbs.

Doing the Mumbo-Jumbo

No one could do the mumbo-jumbo better than Mary. The syntax of her sentences was so grammatically challenged that gibberish became garish garbage-prattle and absolute rubbish. Droning on with her drivel, she escalated into hokum-bunkum with a twist of balderdash on top. She ended it with massive amounts of malarkey by engaging bunk and poppycock and rot-n-tosh that could only be topped by twaddle, which she successfully accomplished as well. One can see great promises for Mary in the hooey-hokum-humbug business.