Tough Day for the Army by John Warner Read Free Book Online Page A

acceptable tolerances and practices for the safe and humane processing of commercial beef cattle.
The Five Nicest Things the Researcher’s Wife Ever Said to Him in Chronological, Rather Than Rank, Order
    Ewww, I never slept with Barry!
    I love you too.
    I do.
    I think your shirt’s on backwards.
    You don’t have to go back if you don’t want to. We’ll be fine.
Discussion cont.
    This is not to say that practices and procedures could not be improved, because the ways (if not the means) Plant #5867 could be improved are almost too numerous to list, and yet this researcher finds himself at a loss as to where to begin. This researcher’s experiences at Commercial Beef Slaughter Plant #5867 have reinforced the notion that when it comes to judging things, it’s the standard by which we’re judging that matters most. This researcher has been to his share of grade school music recitals, and no one would mistake what goes on there for true artistry, and yet the “music” can and does bring the audience to tears. We call the gap between perfection and acceptability the “tolerance.” That’s another interesting word, isn’t it? How tolerant are we, really? Are we tolerant of the right things?
Last Words from the Female Protestor to this Researcher Following His Final Day of On-Site Investigation at Commercial Beef Slaughter Plant #5867
    â€œTake care.”
Discussion (cont.)
    The thing is, if we’re going to do this, there’s only so much you can do. What I’m saying is that it is what it is.
Conclusions and Clinical Relevance
    Care should be taken to ensure proper stunner maintenance. Stunners should be used correctly, particularly when stunning cows and bulls with heavy skulls.

Monkey and Man
    So I was sitting on the couch, scratching behind the dog’s second-favorite ear and humming a song of woe over Constance leaving us, when the doorbell rang. Through the cracked door I saw a vaguely familiar monkey dressed in tuxedo shirt, bow tie, and cummerbund, but no pants. He clutched a circular hatbox.
    â€œSorry, no monkeys needed here,” I said.
    But the monkey jammed the hatbox in the closing door, and a hairy paw extended through the opening. The paw held a convincing replica of my wallet, so convincing that it and my wallet appeared to be one and the same.
    He said, “You need this; we’re going for a ride. Giuseppe is dead.”
    Giuseppe, the organ-grinder, dead, and this, his monkey.
    He stepped inside, opened the hatbox, and changed into an outfit of cutoff shorts held up by rainbow suspenders before folding the tuxedo top neatly back into the box. His chest was sunken and only spotted with fur. He was an old monkey.
    â€œWhere did you get this?” I said, searching through the wallet, cataloguing the contents. The dog circled, showed just a hint of teeth.
    The monkey sighed. “Have you noticed that when you’re arguing with your now ex-girlfriend, you are often distracted by the hot flush of her cheeks? Of course I know you are, because you never felt the light touch of my deft monkey paw.”
    â€œAll the money is gone.” It was.
    â€œI hardly think that seven dollars is something to quibble over when one has been reunited with his wallet.” He snapped the hatbox’s latch closed and flipped on the television. Over the news anchor’s shoulder was a file picture of Giuseppe in his fez and fringed jacket, squeezing his accordion. In the picture, the monkey perched on his shoulder, grinning and clapping.
    The monkey looked at the TV. “Did you know,” he said, “that when an animal shows its teeth, that’s a sign of aggression? For some reason you people take it as smiling.”
    The dog worked into a growl. The monkey shushed him, flashing the back of his paw. He removed a small steno-style notebook and pencil from the hatbox, licked the pencil tip, and jotted a few things down. As the news