About a month ago, our neighbors introduced us to farm fresh milk, as I mentioned in an earlier entry. The “dairy farm” is about 5 minutes or so from our house, and we go about twice a week. On my last visit, I met the man who owns the cows who will now be known as the Milk Man. He is your stereotypical country boy. He grew up on a farm, owns cattle, chickens, turkeys, etc., milks the cows by hand everyday, and loves it. The Milk Man is as sweet as can be, and very friendly. Today on our trip to pick up milk, Trinity was to help me carry the milk back to the truck because we were getting 3 gallons, and I didn’t want to make 2 trips. Upon getting out of the truck, we were warmly greeted by the Milk Man, and then the embarrassment began. He walked us back to the truck and the girls began to bombard him with strange questions and random facts.
Kylie: Howdy! Are you a farmer?
Milk Man: Yep.
Kylie: Do you make the milk?
Milk Man: Yep, I do.
Trinity: He squeezes it from the cows titties. (YES SHE SAID TITTIES!)
Trinity: Why don’t you have one of those things in your mouth?
Me: A toothpick?
Trinity: No, one of those long things with the fuzzy stuff on the end?
Me: Get in the truck.
Trinity: Is your last name Brown?
Milk Man: No, it’s ——- (omitted for his privacy)
Trinity: Your name should be Farmer Brown
Me: SHUT THE DOOR!
Of course the Milk Man was a bit confused, but was a perfect gentleman. He talked to me for a few more minutes, telling me I had “some fine kids”, and then I was on my way. Needless to say, the kids will be confined to the truck next time.