Back in high school, I bought a pickup from a friend of mine’s dad for parts. Since I didn’t have anywhere to put it he told me to just leave it in their junk pile, rob parts off it when I needed them since it wasn’t going anywhere. He also told me to be sure that the bulls weren’t in the junk pile when I went to rob parts, but of course I forgot that part.

One day the next summer, I needed some doodad or another, so I drove out to their place during the day, no one around, grabbed my toolbox, hopped the fence, and started toward the junk pile. About halfway across the 100 yard stretch between the fence and the junk pile, I heard a snort . . . . . he was about 20 yards away, big as a friggin house, and did not look happy to see me. I was then faced with a decision. The fence was behind me, there was most of an old truck in front of me that looked reasonably bull proof, but both looked like a long damn ways away with that big ol’ bull breathing fire and looking at me with pure, unadulterated hatred in his eyes. I decided to back slowly toward the fence and take my chances rather than face being trapped in an old truck all day only to catch a healthy dose of shit for it when I was finally rescued. I made it, but that damn bull followed me the whole way, just far enough away so that I couldn’t forget who’s field I was trespassing in. I didn’t get my parts that day.

I think that’s why I like Rocky Mountain Oysters, every pair that I eat is one less bull that’s going to sneak up and scare the hell out of me someday.