“These cows, sir,” a man on TV says. His voice is clear but there is no video. We’re concerned something is wrong with the cable again. “They’re, to put it like our sign says, they’re twisted. They’ve done vile things. But that’s what makes the leather so good. Here, feel this.”
The screen remains black and, in the confusion of the moment, we notice the feel of the leather couch we’re sitting on. It’s so slick and worn, three years old now, and for the first time we think of where it came from. What sort of cow gave this hide for us to sit on, to sleep on, to spill drinks on, to have sex on with that person from work and that other person from the first floor?
“These cows, they deserved what they got. That’s why you can enjoy the coat guilt free,” the voice says.
We thumb at the couch and get up to shut off the television but it won’t shut off.
“Sick minds, these cows,” says the voice.