The Switzerland Slaughterhouse

The Guru Moo's last rant.

This will be my last column. These will be my last words. Your Guru Moo is approaching the last roundup and wants to share with you these last precious thoughts. Hard times have befallen us here on Mount Moo. My farmer has gone out of business and I have lost my family, my home, my job and soon my life. These last few weeks have been pure torture as I watched the trucks come and take away the milking machines, the farm equipment, the other animals, my brothers, sisters and finally me. All this happened so quickly. One day I was getting a tooth filled by the vet and the next day a man from the bank came to Mr. Farmer with a "For Sale" sign in his hand. I still have trouble chewing my cud but that is the least of my problems today. All my life I have kicked and laughed at the economic forces which will now swallow me whole.

(In the jungle of the market place, the intelligent buyer must be alert to every commercial sound, to every snap of a selling twig, to every rustle that may signal the uprising arm holding the knife pointed toward the jugular vein.)

Oh how I will miss that farm! All my life I roamed those hills. My happiest moments were spent there as a youngsteer when I would separate myself from the herd and climb to the top of Mount Moo and ponder the meaning of life. I was so carefree and wild with a sharp mind and supple body that was vibrant and alive to everything. What a heady and happy time that was when I experimented with every herb, plant, and mindbender I could find that would slide down my throat. I was a spiritual panhandler with a hearty appetite and an unquenchable thirst. My cow bell got rung a few times but I always managed to get up and find my way back home again. Those were the days my friend, I hoped they would never end.

(Listen, I put liquor in my milk. I put liquor in my coffee and in my OJ. What did you want me to do, starve to death? I drank everything I could get, including Benzedrine.)

As I write this now I am in the Switzerland Slaughterhouse. I am penned up in a cramped stall eating some grainy substance that does not agree with me. The water tastes like coffee made from human saliva and cockroaches crawl all over me tickling my private parts. The darkness is a thick, black fog and the smell of cow blood is everywhere.  I hear the sound of throats being slit and saws cutting into bone and I shudder because this will be my fate when the sun rises tomorrow. This is not how I wanted to leave this planet. There is more hay yet to be eaten and so much more contentment to savor.

(I beseech you from the bowels of a desperate cow, think it possible you may be making a mistake.)

I flashback to calfhood and remember the happy days suckling my loving mother who sang to me stories of the great thinker cows and taught me to appreciate the wonder inherent in all life forms. I remember my father, the proud hard-working bull, who instilled in me the material ideals I would need to survive with the herd and the marketplace. I fondly remember the cool spring mornings and the feel of the tall, wet, green grass between my legs.  I remember the warm sunny afternoons when the vegetation tasted like angel wings and my cud overflowed. I remember the breezy autumn evenings when the stars called me by name and I had dreams of jumping over the moon. I remember the cold winter days when the snow fell on my hard rump and time at last stood still. But now that damn cow bell is tolling and it is tolling for me! I wish I were deaf, dumb and blind instead of next in the killing line. There has to be some way out of here!

(We are not so much in love with the past as afraid of the present, and in positive horror of the future.)

I am shitting and pissing all over myself now and no longer care. I am shaking and bawling out loud and want to kill myself before these evil men come and do it for me.  I try to muse on reincarnation to quiet myself but realize I no longer want to come back here ever again. Why come back and go through this unfair madness again? There is evil in food, hunger and money. I am trying to find the key of life but the march of death is trampling my search. The great yellow star is rising once more. A rooster I know very well (bless moo Tommy Gun) is crowing. I hear footsteps approaching. My time has come. There will be no next time for your Guru Moo. May the milk of love wash you clean. MooooOooooM....

(In the ashtray of time, I am just another butt.)

David R. Wyder