I've never been cow tipping. You haven't either. Let's use our imagination. You and I go cow tipping. I think it's a juvenile thing to do but you've been going through some shit.
We jam a few beers and head to the nearest pasture. We cut through a fence with bolt cutters and locate our cow of choice. I push the cow over. It's dark and there's miscommunication, you get pinned under the cow. In the commotion you tear the cow's hide open with the bolt cutters. Blood, entrails and assorted guts spill onto your screaming, flailing body. I could help you out but I'm drunk and enjoying the view. Plus, we're not that good of friends. This continues for forty minutes.
We get back in the car. You're not happy with me. I'm not happy with you: you stink. To quell the discomfort I insert a CD into the player. You laugh, "Wow, this is exactly like that situation back at the pasture. Who is this?"
"Indian."
"It's harsh, heavy and filthy."
"You should write a review about it."
"No, you should."
So I did.
-Z
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