Apocalypse Cow
By Del Shannon

My mother called me last Saturday and when I picked up the receiver she blurted, “Del, the dairy farmers are trying to take over the world.”

For just a second I imagined a herd of farmers in coveralls riding big Jerseys through Larimer Square. Sitting high on their bovines they yelled, “We have not yet begun to milk.”

“What?” was all I could manage to say, as my mental dairy farmers were overrun by another vision of tofu fighters from Boulder.

“The dairy farmers are trying to take over the world,” she repeated, not trying to dilute her opinion with the luxury of sensible thought.

This time I managed a “Why?”

“Antibiotics,” she answered.

Most people probably would have hung up at this point, even if their mother were on the other end of the line, but not me. My curiosity had just been punched in the nose, and punched hard. “Of course,” I answered. “Because the diary farmers don’t like antibiotics and they’re going to…” my voice trailed off as I failed to make the next leap of logic.

“You’re not following, are you?” Her words rifled out of the phone at me with deadly precision. During the following pause and sigh I thought I heard her mumble, “Strong back. Weak mind.”

“No, I’m sorry,” I squeaked.

“It’s very simple,” she said slower this time, as if I had some disorder that prevented me from understanding quickly spoken, maniacal theories. “Antibiotics kill bacteria, right?”

I paused as I wondered if this was a rhetorical question or not.

“Right?” she repeated, answering my wonder immediately.

“Right,” I quickly barked. “Antibiotics kill bacteria. Always have. Always will.”

“And they don’t differentiate between the kinds of bacteria they kill. They just lay waste to the whole spectrum, right?”

“Right!” I barked again, almost in unison with her. Gaining momentum I continued my agreement. “Antibiotics are bad! They kill innocent bacteria. It’s bactericide.”

“Stay with me on this. I’m trying to be serious,” she sighed.

I mumbled another apology.

She got back on track. “So, if you get pink eye, and the doctor prescribes antibiotics, and all the good bacteria in your stomach get decimated as well, what do you do?”

“I don’t know?” I answered quickly.

“You have to drink acidophilus milk!” she announced with a dramatic exclamation.

I can’t say it all “clicked” at that point but I began to see a shadow of what she was talking about. “So you think the dairy farmers are trying to make acidophilus addicts out of us by funding rogue antibiotic research?”

“You’re my son and I love you, but you can be so naïve sometimes,” she said with another sigh. “I don’t have any proof – yet – but I think the dairy farmers aren’t doing anything to stop the creation of ever stronger antibiotics. And the good bacteria in our stomachs will continue to suffer to the point that one day we’ll become completely reliant on acidophilus milk for our very existence.”

“But why would they try and stop antibiotic research?” I mildly protested. “They’re dairy farmers. They worry about cheese and milk and butter and yogurt and cows. They seem like such nice people every time you see one on television. And can’t you buy acidophilus pills at the store?”

“And who do you think owns the company that makes the acidophilus pills? Those same dairy farmers,” she said lowly.

At this point I gave up and cut to the quick. “So, why are you telling me this?” I asked.

“I need a name for this disaster. You’re a writer. You’ve always been good at coming up with pithy statements. What do you think?”

“How about Apocalypse Cow,” I blurted without even thinking.

“Perfect!” she yelled, which was followed immediately by the click of her hanging up the phone.

“Great,” I mumbled to myself as I replaced my own phone it its cradle. “Now I’ve got this on my conscience too.”

End Apocalypse Cow


Battle of the Naked Zydeco Bands
By Del Shannon

As we pulled into the nudist camp parking lot Beth, my wife, said, “Just because we're going to nudist camp doesn't mean you have to get naked.” One of these days I've got to figure out exactly how she gets inside my head.

“Okay, okay,” I mumbled.

“We're here to see John and Maureen's Zydeco band. They begged and we promised, but that's it. No sympathetic naked participation”

“How do you come up with the idea to start a naked Zydeco band?” I asked, changing the subject as we walked toward the entrance.

“How do you do anything naked?” Beth answered as we walked. “Wait, don't answer that.” How does she do that?

“I will tell you that's the last time I have four margarita's at any dinner they're at,” she grumbled.

The dance hall wasn't difficult to find. Indiscernibly blaring music pouring from a large white building told us exactly where to go. I could tell Beth was getting queasy with the whole naked thing.

“What if someone gets,” she paused for the right word, “interested, in someone else tonight,” she asked as we walked into the building.

“No chance anyone's going to get ‘interested’ in that group,” I said, nodding at a group of people to our left in desperate need of clothing.

I'm not sure what I expected to see, this being my first time at a naked zydeco band competition. But I can tell you I didn't expect to see our friends, John and Maureen, jumping around, naked, on the stage playing Louisiana swamp music. Maureen had warned me about the custom washboard she used, the one with two cutouts conveniently placed in it's front. But I still wasn't ready for the actual sight of…them.

She was scratching the front of the washboard (scritcha-scratcha, scitcha-scratcha) while her two “accompanists” thwacked away on the offbeat. Scritcha-scratcha, thwacka-thwacka. Scritcha-scratcha, thwacka-thwacka. John was sucking away on a harmonica but, while he wore a big smile, his body language suggested he was very uninterested.

Beth was wide eyed at the whole scene and I could tell she was becoming a little too fixated on John. “He's probably just a little nervous, or cold,” I offered in defense of the every male on the planet. “It's no big deal,” I continued, instantly regretting my choice of words.

Then the song ended and we realized we were standing in the middle of the room staring slack jawed at the stage. We scurried to an empty table, joined my John and Maureen a minute later.

“You two been here long?” John asked as they sat next to us.

“Just got here,” I said, locking my eyes on their faces. “Sorry we're late. Sitter,” I offered with a shrug.

“That's okay, you caught our big finale,” Maureen said with a giggle. “I'm sure we'll win the Battle of Naked Zydeco Bands if we can just beat this next act – Jim’s Big Band.”

As if cued, Jim strode onto the stage with his band. Like Maureen, he sported a washboard but, instead of cutouts, a small cymbal hung from the bottom. Jim's Big Band jumped immediately into what sounded like a Zydeco standard Jim jumping around scritcha-scratching away.
After several songs I was sold by Maureen’s thwacka-thwacka. That is until Jim started using his cymbal. In the middle of their last song, like a bolt from the blue, Jim gave a little oomph from downtown and clanged his cymbal on the offbeat. The place went nuts. Scritcha-scratcha, clang. Scritcha-scratcha, clang.

“Maybe you should start playing the washboard?” Maureen groaned to John. But then, after a long pause, and a discrete look, she sighed. “Or maybe not.”

Beth and I stayed for the awards ceremony and cheered thunderously for John and Maureen's second place trophy. It wasn't until the ride home when Beth finally came clean. “You know, I think the Simon's have one of those old washboards.”

“No!” I barked.

“And I’ll bet I scrounge up a cymbal,” she continued.

“There will be no cymbal playing with parts of the body that shouldn't be playing the cymbal,” I said vigorously.

“You're such a weenie,” she said with a smile.

“Okay, that's not fair,” I said. “Yes, I'm a weenie, but not in the way you're thinking.” She called me a weenie the rest of the way home while I secretly thanked the almighty I was, indeed, a world-class weenie.

End Battle of the Naked Zydeco Bands