Sam Venable  

Special Contributor

Pay attention, children. What I’m about to say is very important: The next time your science teacher starts jabbering about where milk comes from, don’t believe a word. It’s an outright lie.

I, on the other hand, will tell you the truth.

Milk comes from lots of places. It comes from supermarkets, convenience stores, restaurants and cafeterias. It comes from machines. It comes from trucks. It comes from glass bottles, plastic jugs and cardboard cartons.

It does not, however, come from cows.

I know this for a fact because I attempted to withdraw milk from a cow the other day, and all I got was a fine, white mist.

This feat was performed during opening ceremonies at the Tennessee Valley Fair. The folks in charge sponsored a cow-milking contest and invited a bunch of media types to participate.

Promoters do this for two reasons.

First, it gives the good ol’ boys at the livestock pavilion their annual chance to make fun of city slickers. If there’s anything more hilarious than watching a man in a starched shirt and necktie squat in manure-dotted hay alongside a cow with drool hanging off its nose, it’s watching a woman in a fancy dress do the same thing.

Second, this is an excellent way for the fair to get cheap publicity.

If an executive from the fair walked into a newspaper office or a radio or TV station and said, “Hi, guys! How about giving me $5,000 worth of free advertising?” the news people would laugh out loud.

“Nice try, pal,” they would say, “but we don’t give away news hole and air time around here.” Then they would escort him to the door.

But when he says, “We’re sponsoring a milking contest. Would someone from your staff like to enter?” the news types snap their fingers and say, “Wow! What a terrific idea! Let’s search through the newsroom and find the goofiest jerk we have. Someone who’ll really screw things up. Let him get out there and make a fool out of himself and then write about it. Hahaha.”

Which is why I found myself squatting beside this stupid, drooling cow, squeezing her stupid ti... uh, whatever those things are called... trying to shoot some stupid milk into a stupid Coke bottle —Yes, a Coke bottle! Isn’t a pail supposed to be standard issue?—and dodging whenever the stupid cow tried to kick me.

(Hmm, and to think all this time, I had considered myself somewhat of an expert, harrumph, when it came to manipulating the mammaries. But I digress.)

They gave me my choice of five cows for this contest: two Guernseys, two Holsteins and one Jersey. I ruled out the Jersey immediately. She was skinnier than a Q-tip and appeared to be in greater need of milk than I.

The Holsteins, on the other hand, were brutes. They looked like a team of black and white 747s. Never milk a cow, I always say, if it must be approached by step ladder.

So I settled on one of the Guernseys.

Bad choice. Very bad choice.

Maybe it didn’t help our relations any when I walked up to the beast, slapped her on the flank, and said, “Give it all you got, honey, or the next stop for you is McDonald’s.”

But for one reason or another, she produced not a drop. Seriously.

I’m talking zilch. Zip. Zero.

(And please. Spare me your sermons about my milking technique. I’ll have you know I spent a full afternoon of practice the day before at Breck Ellison’s cattle emporium near Lenoir City. Quasi-practice, anyway. Breck only had bulls in his barn. But big deal; some of his helpers extended their fingers and showed me what to do. So there.)

I finally gave up on the Guernsey and switched to a 747. Too late. I got in one decent squeeze—producing enough milk to moisten a small postage stamp—before the judge, a man who looked like he could be cheaply bribed, called time.

When all the bottles were collected and their contents measured, some radio disc jockey was declared the winner. I could swear I saw the guy pass the judge a $10 bill, but far be it from me to start an ugly rumor. Besides, all I had to offer was $7.54.

The day was not a total loss, though. I did receive a ribbon for my efforts. It was a black ribbon. For last place.

Even better, I was able to persuade the officials to change receptacles before next year’s media milking contest. No more long-necked Coke bottles, thank heavens.

In my case, they said a thimble would be more than ample.

Sam Venable is an author, stand-up comedian, and humor columnist for the Knoxville (TN) News Sentinel. He may be reached at mahv@outlook.com.