David Spates "Therefore I Am" Published Feb. 8, 2005

More silliness: Cow poop, boxing chickens and giant Doritos

Sometimes I feel as though I'm dreaming. It all seems just a little too weird. If you think fiction is hard to believe, you should take a closer look at reality. Like the old Spencer Tracy movie tells us, "It's a Mad Mad Mad Mad World."

Last week I wrote about the guy who had a four-inch nail in his skull and didn't know it. That, as they say, is just the tip of the ice cube. I intended to include more absurdities in that first column, but I got a little carried away by the nail guy, and before I could get to anything else, the column was done.

So here, in the interest of full disclosure, I present even more goofiness.

Well, maybe goofy is the wrong word, but in the case of a 2,000-ton pile of burning cow manure, I'm not exactly sure what the right word is. That's something they didn't delve into at journalism school.

David Dickson owns and manages a cattle feedlot in Nebraska, and the cows there, all 12,000 or so, do what cows do, or in this case, the cows do what they doodoo. The "byproducts" from the operation have been collected into a massive dung pile 100 feet long, 30 feet tall and 50 feet wide. Under normal circumstances, a three-story-high pile of cow poop would be bad enough, but a blazing three-story-high pile of cow poop is even worse.

And it's been burning for more than two months.

How did the fire start? At this point, who cares? Repeated attempts to douse it have failed, and the smoke wafts for miles. In fact, according to the story by the Associated Press, diners at a restaurant 80 miles away have been complaining about the smell.

Sure, to us in Tennessee, it may be kind of funny, but I suspect the humor, unlike the stench, has long since dissipated in Nebraska. Imagine trying to sell a T-bone steak in a restaurant that smells like burning cow manure. I've never owned a restaurant, but I'm thinking that would be bad for business.

And speaking of being bad for business (if that's not a forced segue I don't know what is), there is more dreamlike absurdity to report from the Midwest. Honestly, this next one is even more outlandish. It sounds like a Monty Python sketch rather than actual news.

Oklahoma State Sen. Frank Shurden has proposed a blood-free alternative to cockfighting. He wants to fit roosters with wee little boxing gloves so the birds can duke it out in relative safety. I really shouldn't have to write any more about this, but I'm going to anyway.

According to the AP story, Shurden is a longtime supporter of cockfighting. (There's something for the ol' resumé. "I'm a longtime supporter of cockfighting.") In 2002, state voters made cockfighting illegal.

"Who's going to object to chickens fighting like humans do?" asked the distinguished gentleman from Oklahoma. "Everybody wins. To me it answers everything. It saves the industry, takes blood sport out and generates revenue for Oklahoma."

I'm dreaming, right? There's no way an elected state official wants to put little boxing gloves on roosters, is there? It's a joke, right? Are people so enthralled with watching roosters slice each other to ribbons that they just can't stop, uh, cold turkey? Who are these people? It's like they don't even live on the same planet as the rest of us.

In the first place, I'm amazed that anyone ever thought to put razor spurs on two roosters and then wager on the outcome, and now someone wants to use boxing gloves. Maybe they could teach the birds to Greco-Roman wrestle. Better yet, get the birds to play chess. That way no one gets hurt except the rooks.

I have no cheesy segue for this last one. I apologize. Well, maybe "cheesy" will suffice.

A big bag of Doritos has a picture of two chips on the front. The chips in the picture are, relative to actual Doritos, quite huge, probably five inches on each of the two longer sides. (An isosceles triangle if my moss-covered brain serves.) Right below the picture are the words "chips enlarged to show detail."

You know what that means, don't you? A while back some guy saw the bag's picture and assumed the chips must be that size, but he opened the bag and realized that Doritos are in fact not the size of a grown man's palm. Disappointed, he called the folks at Frito-Lay and chewed somebody out. Why else would the disclaimer be there?

Maybe car makers should take a cue. "Images of cars shown in this TV commercial are shrunken to fit your screen. Actual car is 13 feet long."

I know what I'll be dreaming about tonight: Boxing roosters eating giant tortilla chips while standing on flaming pile of cow dung.

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David Spates is a Knoxville resident and Crossville Chronicle contributor whose column is published each Tuesday. He can be reached at davespates@chartertn.net.