By Car Johnson
I like to collect things too. Everything I collect is something most people would find odd, like my collection of cow fetuses or used fly paper. I’ve collected stuff for as long as I can remember. When I was a toddler, I had a corner of my room dedicated to all the bandaids I could gather from the trash. When my father (or Uncle Frank. It was always hard to tell) found out, he bought me a display box and taught me how to categorize and protect my treasures. I lost interest in bandaids by the time I was five, but I soon found other things to collect.
The little girl down the street had a stuffed rabbit that sparked my interest in a stuffed animal collection. I took her rabbit, plus the plush toys from several other children and shoved them in my display case. Once again, the fickleness of youth won out and I soon tired of my stolen zoo. So I took the animals out back and played funeral. I dug up an my mother’s rose garden and gave them a proper burial. Unfortunately, my neighbor Mrs. Green saw me and told my parents. I was forced to dig up the toys and give them back to the neighbor kids (after they were disinfected and de-earth wormed). I learned my lesson: Don’t steal fluffy stuffed animals and bury them in your backyard when your nosy next door neighbor is hanging up clothes.
After that, I only collected things I could take without being called a “little thief.” I didn’t go back to bandaids, though. I moved on to toothpicks. They were hard to find at first, but I learned how to tell them apart from other trash on the street or in my mother’s carpet. This was the first time I didn’t just toss a collection out when I got bored. Instead, I kept them right next to my new drain hair collection. Then I got bored with both six months later and tossed them out to make room for my chewed bubble gum collection
My collecting endeavors continued to be limited to things I could scrounge up for most of my early childhood. It wasn’t until I was twelve that I REALLY started to get serious. It all started when my science class went on a fieldtrip to a local university and got to see some biology students dissecting cow fetuses. I was hooked. They looked so alien, and yet, so… cow-like. I begged my teacher, Mr. Jones, to let me take one home, but he just shook his head and gave me that “please don’t give me another ulcer” look I got from all my teachers. I dropped the subject, but resolved to get one without his help.
First, I asked my parents how to go about starting a cow fetus collection. My father (I know it was my father because Uncle Frank had gotten a scar across his eye a few months before from a banana boat accident) took me aside and told me I’d have to learn about preserving animals if I wanted to collect cow fetuses. He bought me a book about it, and I saw how hard it would be to start my collection AND maintain it. ( really didn’t like the fact that I’d have to use formaldehyde. I kept thinking about my cousin Jan and her unsuccessful attempt at creating the world’s first formaldehyde contact cleaning solution. I didn’t want to go anywhere near the stuff. (I was a bit more cautious when I was a kid.) Good thing my mother kept her own collection of our families late goldfish. She offered to do the actual preserving for me until I felt comfortable doing it myself.
Now I all I had to do was to get some cow fetuses. I headed to the local university and asked the head of the biology department if I could buy some cow fetuses with my paper route money. He threatened to call the cops, so I left and came back with my mother. She threatened to tell the media about his relationship with one of the agricultural department’s prized sheep (I still don’t know how she found that little secret of his) and he suddenly changed his tune. He let me buy three cow fetuses right then and there.
I was able to use him as a supplier for ten years, until he got ousted because of a home video of him having a romantic picnic with a palomino named Thunder. It really didn’t matter, since I had found other ways to gain access to unborn calves. Overall, my cow fetus collection is still my true passion. Have you ever seen old ladies with shelves full of clown dolls? That’s me, just my dolls are preserved cow fetuses. They’re my babies. They all have names and while I can’t dress them up, I do stick funny hats on top of their jars. They’re always silent and do as their told and they make a great audience when I brush my teeth. I try to take Bessie, my favorite, with me wherever I go. I even snuck her into my nephew’s choir recital (but I got kicked out after holding her up to my face and singing along in a squeaky cow fetus voice).
All my other collections are still just things I can salvage from the trash or the side of the road. (I once found a dead cow and her half born calf when I was out on a drive, but I left it alone. Not only was the calf half born, it was way too big for my tastes.) And I still get bored with whatever random scrounge collection I have at the moment. I think I’ll toss out my used fly paper. I just found some old rectal thermometers in my neighbor’s trash. Now THAT is going to be the start of a cool collection! (Not as cool as cow fetuses, though.)
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Wanna talk to Car? Email him at: Car_Johnson_Rocks@hotmail.com
