In The Interest Of Fairness

« March 2005 »

Memo to Harold G. Hart: YOU'RE NO AUSTIN GULLETTE.

It's funny how, even in the somewhat rarefied arena of fucking barnyard animals, certain important differences and contrasts can be drawn between, say, rural Wisconsin and rural Louisiana. Louisiana, as longtime readers of this column know, is the home of YAD mascot and infamous pigfucker Austin Gullette. And rural Wisconsin, Neillsville to be precise, is the home of Harold Hart, serial COWFUCKER.

Even if it were not the policy of this website to roundly mock any and all cases of farmication that come to its attention, karma, balance, and fairness would demand that Mr. Hart gain my undivided attention. After all, the South does take it in the cow-hole quite a bit from this website, and ignoring Mr. Hart's unique interpretation of "cow pie" would open me up to charges of being biased, of being willing to overlook the bovine bedhopping of the North while castigating the porcine peccadilloes of the South. Not I. I am an equal opportunity critic, and if you do the interspecies mambo*, I don't care where you're from. Not a lot of cowfuckers in our big cities, of course. Probably because of the relative availability of both hookers and broadband.

Still, the Hart and Gullette cases diverge even beyond the fundamental question of "Would you like pork or beef in your lo mein?" Gullette's pig had a name. "P-Pie". Gullette knew the pig. It was his sister's pet. There was something between them that, while it fell short of a relationship, still rose above the level of complete anonymity.

Hart, on the other hand, was a bit more cosmopolitan, a bit more "Sex In The City", except for the "In The City" part. He tended to stop at a family-owned farm after closing time, grab a cow, and go to town. And while Gullette and P-Pie only consummated their relationship the one time that we know of, Hart has admitted to "routinely" stopping at the Greenwood farm to fuck the cows there.

There is a certain Midwestern hardiness on display here, I'll admit. I can't imagine it would be easy to drive home, drunk, at two o'clock in the morning, in the dark, in rural Wisconsin, in the winter, and find and fuck a cow on your favorite farm. That's a LOT of work. Especially for a sixty-three year old guy. Did I mention he was sixty-three? He was sixty-three all right. That's a lot of effort to put yourself through just to dip your AARP-qualifying wick.

Even more perplexing, to me, is the revelation that Hart would occasionally indulge on his way to strip clubs. ON HIS WAY. Not coming back from, enflamed by the sight of the hottest girlflesh rural Wisconsin had to offer, but EN ROUTE to the clubs. Wonder if he bothered getting lap dances? Imagine how THAT must have gone. "Hey baby... care for a dance? Did you just come here from the McDonald's? Oh, no reason..."

Hart also differs from Gullette in another vital, important way - how he got caught. Austin got walked in on by his sister en pigrante delecto. But Hart managed at least fifty "trips to the pasture", as it were, before the Greenwoods, who'd noticed footprints on their farm, installed ELECTRONIC MOTION DETECTORS. And, oh, what a motion they didst detect.

Hart didn't get caught in the act, and was able to pass off the excuse that he'd never been to the barn before, and just stopped by to use the barn's bathroom. This is one of those rare times I wish I knew more about rural life than I can glean from one Game Boy farming simulation. Do barns even HAVE bathrooms? Is this commonplace? Or are Wisconsin's journalists being discreet in their cow-fucking stories and are using a euphemism for "whizzing in the hay"? The world may never know.

Apparently, Hart got a taste of the moo juice in the 60's, before entering the military, which at the time had a strict "Don't Squeal, Don't Bleat" policy toward bestiality. He resumed the practice about a year ago for reasons that were not revealed. In his defense, Hart claimed he never once fucked a cow while he was married or otherwise in a relationship with a woman. So he may fuck cows, but by God he respects the sanctity of marriage!

But the worst part of the whole thing, really, is that he wasn't fucking full-grown cows. He was fucking calves. Now, I'm not sure what the age of consent is for cows, but even assuming the calves were "of age", that's just creepy. He's sixty-three, and they're, what? One, two at the most? It's like Richard Gere and Winona Rider in "Autumn In New York". That kind of May-December romance never works out.

Especially these days, with modern motion-sensing alarm systems.

*Or, for that matter, the simulated interspecies mambo. You're fair game too.