When City Folk Visit the Country

Yesterday, I told the(sic) Hitman that some city folk came out to visit. He asked, "Do you guys think I'm a city folk?" I said, "I don't know, not really," or something to that effect. Later in the night, my dad asked me, "They think we're hicks, don't they?" I said, "Just tonight, the Hitman asked if we thought they were city folk. They don't think we're hicks." (As a sidenote, apparently Frenchy French made contact a few days ago, and through a thorough questioning process of the contacted, I determined that they're neither divorced or dead.)


Anyways, a couple of city folk came out to our house. Like, a couple. Not as in two, but as in, an "adv. itam," a "boxolofoos," a "pair of mismatched socks," a "sideways box of cracker crumbs." You know what I mean?


She, let's call her "...uhh, I don't...I don't know what we'll call her. Um...let's see...


"Yulette." Let's call her Yulette...then shorten it to Yuley. There. You've witnessed the process of me nicknaming others. Yuley happens to work with one of my parents, and just happens to have experience drawing blood from the defenseless elderly in old folks homes. We needed to do blood draws on like 15 of our goats to test for a disease.


The weird thing is, they brought their clothes. Their dirty clothes. These they would wash and dry as payment for their laboring. They do not have washers or dryers, we have several. We do not know how to draw blood, they have several. We made the trade and it worked out just fine. For the most part. I guess they travel around, hanging out with different people, using their washers and dryers.

The husband's name is Norry. He's a tech guy. They actually thought everything was OK- no cries of "OH NO, KILLER AMERICAN PIT BULL TERRIER!"...then it was time to draw the blood. Yuley was shaking very badly. Like, half an inch of shake. I'm not quite sure how she managed to successfully draw the blood. I guess if you jab enough, hard enough, and fast enough, you can get most of what you need if your need is blood. After that, everything was fine. Several hours passed- we had to do that many goats- and it was my turn to learn to draw blood.

Some goats didn't freak out and it was over quick; others were harder, and decided it was best to push as hard as they could on the restraining bars, thus lengthening the process and causing (themselves) pain...think of it as trying very hard to stand up in your car, chronically crushing your head against the roof as hard as you can. Eventually your neck muscles lose strength, then your head flops sideways, and inexplicably you're still crushing your sideways turned head and neck against the ceiling. The car swerves and swerves.


And I just happened to have one of the hard ones. My mom got a lesson shortly before me, and I think she got a hard one, too. I missed the vein (on the hard ones, it's hit-and-miss), but got a quarter-draw of air. I took the needle out then released the air. Yuley said, "OH man, I'm so glad you didn't let that air go in the goat. If it got into its bloodstream, it would have died." The conversation made its way over to an air bubble causing massive heart attack. I asked, "So, you could dispatch a goat by injecting it with air?"

She's one of those people that concentrates really, really hard on responding, while doing something else. "Well, it would be a...lengthy death," she said. I said, "So, do you think it would be better to shoot the goat, and kind of miss, and it's only kind of dead, and have to shoot it again, or to let it die of a heart attack?" "N-...OhhWHat?" she said, with horror. "Well, it would probably be stunned from the first shot..." she reasoned, recovering from what seemed to be a near breakdown. Norry is great moral support. "JAB, JAB, JAB THAT GOAT, JAB IT HARD THEN GLOAT GLOAT GLOAT! DRAW DRAW! DRAW DRAW! DRAAAW!" he cheered.




Poor city folk, can't barely handle shocking "I shot it and it was still alive, but its face had blood dripping all over it, and it was still moving, and its eyes were soulless and cold!" stories. Pssh.

If you've never had to shoot a turkey in the head five to seven times, then empty its blood into a wheel barrow, see the coagulating blood, then a mere several days (on Thanksgiving) later eat that fifty-five-pound turkey you shot five to seven times, you've never experienced a botched slaughter. Especially when it tastes horrible. Worst Thanksgiving ever...

:(