That Ain’t No Bull

The Ford dealer near our house uses those twenty-foot dancing hot air stick figures and gigantic blow-up displays to advertise sales and special events.  They’ve had dueling hot air dancers, a great big rubber gorilla for deals we’ll all “go ape for,” a tall rubber rocket so we can “blast off into the new model year,” and, my favorite, the gigantic rubber bull that boasts “we leave the bull outside.”

I had Mom in the car the other day when we passed by the big bull.

“Oh, Patty,” she chirped.  “Look at that big ox.”

“Ox?” I asked, wondering if something had escaped from the zoo and wandered all the way into Sun City.

“Over there, at the car dealer.  It’s a big rubber oxen.”

“No it’s not, Mom,” I said.  “It’s a bull.  You know, a cow with luggage.”  She didn’t get it.

“I saw on the news that we sent oxen over to Australia,” she said.

“Oxen?  From America?”

“Yes.  American oxen with really big, long horns.”

“Are you sure they weren’t Texas longhorns?” I asked.  “Those are steers, not ox.”

“No, I’m sure they were ox.  Like Babe.  Maybe they sent them from Wisconsin.  I think that’s where Paul Bunyan came from.”

“Yup, that’s probably it, Mom,” I answered.  “Gigantic Wisconsin blue oxen roaming around the outback.  I’m sure that’s quite a sight.”

“And speaking of sights,” she continued.  “Did you notice all the cars parked in those car lots?  I wonder, what in the world do they do with all of them.”

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