Cattle Call

On the Tuesday morning after Labor Day, we were easing ourselves back into work mode by e-mailing back and forth with a friend about the antics of the weekend.

Jen.chen@pitch.com: “Now that I think about it, I believe I asked a guy in a cow suit at the Peanut party if he wanted to make out. Of course, I was Night Rangering and was being facetious, but still. Rejected by a guy in a cow suit. That’s pretty sad.”

Friend: “That bastard! I’m not sure if I’d rather be rejected by a cow … or rejected by someone you might be dating, after making a super-sexy offer to spend the night. Do you think the falling-down part was the turnoff?”

Yeah, it was another typical three-day holiday weekend in Kansas City (read: plenty o’ imbibing), which culminated at the Peanut on Main’s traditional Sunday night party in which the bar puts up a tent in its back parking lot and serves beer. We were drawn to this because (a) it’s the biggest thing to do the last night of the weekend; (b) there’s no cover, which is always a plus; (c) there’s usually a huge crowd in attendance (albeit one that’s composed of various Pembroke, Barstow and SM East alums, though, so its prepster quotient is abnormally high); and (d) it’s somewhat of a guilty pleasure, OK?

There’s something very KC about going to an event and running into random people you turn out to know. So, after some pre-drinking at Research Assistant Kevin’s apartment, which was conveniently within stumbling distance, we headed over around 10:30 with an impressive buzz going and were pleased to see that a sizable crowd still remained after the storm.

“All the girls here are acting 10 years younger than they actually are,” Kevin observed. “Look at the group ahead of us,” he continued, pointing out a gaggle of frolicking tube tops. “Late 20s, and they think this is a fraternity gathering.”

After fortifying ourselves further out of those goofy plastic Miller Lite bottles, we were thrilled that the first person we spotted was Cow Suit — aka Scott, 35, who was dressed in a black-and-white Holstein outfit with a cow hood, which tied under his chin, and mandals. When we had been to the Peanut’s Memorial Day shindig, we had tried to talk to him (and by “talk,” the NR means she asked him, “Hey! Can I milk your udder?”), but he was absolutely plastered — to the point where he couldn’t talk coherently — and was about to tip over. Constantly. His friend, who has known him since they were 6 years old, had explained that it was a tradition in their group that when someone was dumped, he would have to wear the suit out for two nights. “If you feel like shit, you might as well feel like bull shit,” the friend had explained. “Plus, it’s a great conversation piece.” This time, though, Scott was decidedly a bit more sober.

“You can milk me,” he said. “I was shitfaced [last time] … when you drink for three days in a row, weird things happen. This time, I want to see how many people see me pretty drunk again.”

“What’s the reaction been?” we asked.

“Half the people run away,” he replied.

“Why?” we wondered.

“Because I’m hammered and in a cow suit!” he answered. How rude, we felt. Drunk cows = friendly, in our book.

We asked Scott to pose for pictures, and after fondling his teats, we jokingly asked if he wanted to make out on camera. Though he was reluctant, our moment with him was immortalized on film with the NR kissing him on the cheek before he melted back into the crowd.
We were soon herded out when the parking lot drinkery shut down around midnight, so we followed the crowd to the Brooksider for one last drink.

“That cow guy pisses me off,” Kevin later noted. “OK, cow suit is funny once, but twice?” Well, we still enjoyed it, and somehow it was symbolic of the comfortable sameness that KC offers sometime. Of course, by this we mean: Drink. Recover. Repeat