Not in the mooooood

To be compared to a dairy cow to some might be seen as a compliment, an insult or just plain rude.  Not that long ago at a children’s party of all places one of the very married daddies commented on my rather impressive boobage and said I’d be a very productive dairy cow.

I very politely proceeded to down the remaining wine in my glass (wine should be mandatory to all parents/guests present at kiddies parties) and pretended I didn’t hear the idiot.

Alas, my stoic silence was not met with the desired outcome and he proceeded with his dairy farm anecdotes. Wifey must’ve been at the petting zoo area wiping dribble or snot out of some crevice or surface no doubt.

Sir, I politely start, I’m not a sir he snaps, I work for my money. Alright then, I say sticking on my best frigid, fake, feral smile. What would you rather be called? Man? Tub of lard? Half cut twat?

Pick one, assemble all three if you want, but listen to me carefully, I will even speak slowly.  I am not a dairy cow, if you proceed to moo or make crude hand gestures in my direction I will make a scene of epic proportions, the like of which you will never recover from.

With this I march away double quick for more wine before I poke his eye out with a plastic spade lying around somewhere in an overgrown tomato patch.

All goes well, children fall off swings, seesaws and the bouncy castle like manna from heaven.  In the midst of my newest form of amusement there’s a constant wailing from various children that no one can establish the cause of and infant crying is like the plague, it spreads like wildfire and needs no encouragement to start.

Finally, a very distraught mother comes hurrying across the yard looking rather green, the only sheep in the petting zoo has literally dropped dead, hence the wailing. Sadly, it didn’t fall on the wailing child, otherwise it would have been a resounding success to my way of thinking.

Not very delicately the owner of said petting zoo drags the dead sheep from the enclosed area without an apology or backward glance.

By this time the wine has dwindled and the only beverage that’s alcoholic resembles a funny coloured Rose that tastes of vinegar. Beggars can’t be choosers in times of desperation and I fill someone’s discarded sippy cup with said stale tasting vinegar and proceed to smile fakely as birthday boy is encouraged to blow out the candles.

While everyone is cooing over the birthday cake (it was green with little plastic cars on it) married, drunk daddy stands right behind me, beer flavoured breath blowing on my neck.  As if that’s not bad enough he then proceeds to rub his now engorged member (have to laugh at romance novels’ descriptions of male anatomy) against the small of my back and bum.

Having now had enough I grab him by the nuts, do a sharp twist to the left with my wrist and can hear an audible breath being drawn in.  In his state of panic he steps back, falls into a plastic chair, which from years of standing in the sun and his considerable girth collapses under him right into some freshly left dog poop.

Oh, the hilarity.

When I’m not the unfortunate recipient of what karma dishes out, it is at times quite satisfying seeing her at work.