A New Hampshire farmer bought a milking cow in Maine, brought it home. Went to milk it, and the cow broke wind. Tried again. Broke wind. This seemed to be a pattern.
He was telling his buddy Clem about his new cow’s unusual habit. “You got that cow over in Maine, didn’t you?” Clem said.
“How’d you know I got her in Maine, Clem? I never told you.”
Clem said, “My wife’s from Maine.”
That may be apocryphal, but it reminds me of a true story of a little boy who came to the farm and wanted to learn to milk a cow. The farmer got the boy situated on a milking stool, pail in place. “There you go,” he says.
The little boy says, “How do you turn it on?”
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