And so the fat bull in the fluffy yellow towel bemoaned to himself. How tragic that the what little time he does not need to spend pointlessly ploughing fields to grow celery he spent sitting around chewing crisps dusted with sour cream and onion powder that tasted so much like the farmer's Red Bull carton cardboard. Verily, he'd much rather spend his time ploughing other, err, things. Besides, who ate celery anyway?
Bored out of his humongous thick skull, the stupid fat bull pulled up his fluffy yellow towel in a manner not dissimilar to the way fat humans would pull up pants that were too tight for them. Indeed, he was a metrosexual bull, fat though he may be, and t'was a fluffy yellow sarong he was wearing. Of course, this is all just digression.
He decided to attempt to communicate with other cattle in farms all over the world. First, he thought he'd try instant messaging. He soon gave that up, however, because the lack of fingers made it quite difficult to type. So he decided to shout, or rather, moo. Except that mooing was effiminate. He bellowed instead. Then he picked of a horn and put it to his ear, to make hearing the replies that much clearer, though why body parts were detachable and how disturbing that was did not occur to him.
Nary a whisper came back. Even the wind, which was moving way beyond the speed limit and technically howling it's head off, if it had one to howl, was deathly silent.
The fat bull soon gave up, and walked back to the crisps. Just as he sat down on his great giant behind, almost squashing his tail and a whole flock of sheep in the process, a bajillion bellows and moos returned. This pretty much flustered the bull, and the flock of sheep was turned into mutton patties.
Ignoring that digusting mess, the bull frantically tried returning each of the replies. In the process, he got a few messages mixed up, and basically fucked things up for himself.
The farmer, not pleased with all the cacophony, took out his shotgun and shot the bull in the head. The thick skull, so solid that even Superman would blush, deflected the pellets, and sent shrapnel all over the place. One pellet flew straight back at the farmer, knocking out his one good tooth, which lodged itself in his windpipe, causing him to drown in his own spittle.
The farmer's wife ran out screaming, "oh Abner!!!" The bull, already annoyed at the few pellets stuck on his face making it look like a vicious outbreak of acne, which was oh-so-not-happening-to-a-metrosexual-bull, was not taking anymore of this, err, bull, gored a hole through one of her bounteous bottoms. Or at least it looked like it. So voluminous was she that the horns merely displaced one of innumurable fat layers, hence knocking the fat Mrs. Abner into the mud.
In reflex, the farmer's wife proceded to release an anal outburst. And we all know, fat lady farts are the most toxic, so all the plants and animals on the farm died. Just like that.
