I just read another hysterical "Shouts & Murmurs" column in the January 18, 2010 edition of The New Yorker.
It starts with a "real" article published by the Centers for Disease Control stating that about 20 people a year are killed by cows.
It's then followed by an article written by an actual cow.
It seems this cow lives on a farm in New Jersey. It's very pleasant. The cow loves that the owners of the farm invite weekend guests because she (the cow) is seriously underrated intellectually so enjoys eavesdropping on actors, journalists, painters, musicians, directors, etc.
That is until she meets a "wormy little cipher, myopic behind black-framed glasses and groomed loutishly in his idea of rural chic: all tweedy and woodsy...demanding that a board be placed under his mattress, which he found too soft ."
"I might add (this is the cow speaking) that the character's incessant carping was done in a kazoolike nasal whine..."
OK, who does this sound like?
The cow goes on for pages describing this (familiar) guy in the most unflattering terms until he does something so offensive that she can't take it anymore.
"It was at this point that I decided to kill him!"
She doesn't quite accomplish this but she tries. And, along the way she's further insulted by this insufferable little Hollywood director.
Of course, the article is not written by a cow. It's written by Woody Allen.
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