Thanks to the bountifulness of the Hyõgo Prefecture in Japan,  I have found my next life’s calling.  I want to be reincarnated as a Wagyu cow. A Japanese Nyameni no less, with all the rights and privileges appertaining to cowhood.

How now brown cow did you get these bovine aspirations, you ask? I’ve given this life altering decision (pun very much intended) all of three seconds of thought. I’ll now proceed to plead my case to the gods of reincarnation and in adjunction present my case to you.

First off, my high school Geography teacher seemed to derive pure orgasmic pleasure in calling students cows. Ms. XYZ, your dreams are almost coming true.  See? I have lived this life to the fullest and made plans for the next.

Kujitetea: In the grand scale of dreams, I don’t think mine are that hard to fulfill. I mean… how hard can becoming a cow be? As things stand I am already half -way there. I am the undisputed owner of two lovely 36C girls. It will require minimal effort to balloon these here beauts to four  roughly 555DDD++ amazons.  That ’s of course, if  I am enticed with hoof  massages and music on demand.

As you may know by now, there are  other aesthetic reasons for becoming a cow. A cow tongue makes it easier to lick tonsils or play ‘my tongue down your throat’ among other (re)creational games.

Being somewhat unblessed in matters concerning eyelashes, I have  watched mine wither and wilt at the hand of my beautician-best friend combo. Enough of this genetic mishap! In my case, the long silky bovine lashes are quite literally, to die for. One bat of these babies and bulls line up to take you over the moon or out to the moo-vies.

While the silky four-foot lashes are for any Koroit,  Sirua, Chepkuitong and Nyameni, there are certain privileges reserved for Japanese Wagyu cows only. These bovine royalty receive daily rations of sake  and massages just for being errr… cows. We all agree that I am not averse to the occasional frothy pint or six. However human commitments in the name of bosses, over-zealous preachers, work and designated driver duties  always seem to curtail my indulgence. An ugly bovine kisser is a small price to pay for strutting down grassy knolls in various stages of perpetual drunkenness.

I want to pack my after-life bags for Japan for the  daily massages. My Alcoholics  Anon.  fall-out-of-the-bandwagon buddies (mnajijua!) attest to the obscure beer bruise phenomenon.

Unchecked consumption of the titillating wonders of  sake in my cowdom may or may not result in bruises. Should bruises arise, I want soft non-calloused hands gently rubbing the sore sites,  fanning gadflies hopefully passing me bottomless pitchers of sake.

While I sit and draft my other bovine qualifications, pray do tell me what your reincarnation aspirations are. I hope we strut our lovely bovine humps together down the grassy knolls somewhere between Bovina, Tx. and Kobe, Japan.

Until my bid to become a Wagyu cow is accepted,  partaking of the sake remains another moo-ndane bovine dream.

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