At bartime on Saturday night I acquired a cowbell. The best part of acquiring a cowbell: you can never have too much cowbell. Even when one friend would say, “Molly, you need to stop with the cowbell.”, another friend would shake his head and mouth to me, “We need more cowbell!” Alas, I was a slave to the masses and gave my people what they wanted to hear: more cowbell. Mind you, a non-aggressive cowbelling, just a slight teasing of movement to produce a soft: ka-kling-klang … ka-klang-kling.

Was probably The Best Night Ever. Cowbells belong in an untouchable sphere of awesomeness where no one can hate them. Any night that includes cowbell is automatically ranked as an Awesome.

The night got less awesome when my friends tried to steal my cowbell. Jealous pricks.

‘Round 4am, I stopped keeping close watch over my night’s take, and just when my guard went down, that’s when I lost my cowbell. We blamed the guy who, that thieving bastard, left at coincidently the exact time the cowbell went missing. Hmm, how CONVENIENT. Recovering from missing cowbell, well, that takes some time. I pouted a bit until one guy friend suggested, “Let’s have a slumber party in [other guy friend who was currently sleeping]’s bed to cheer up.” AMAZING! – the three of us in his bed, primarily because it irritated the living fuck out of the one whose bed we crashed. He’s just so EASY to irritate and gives such a great reaction – how can a person NOT cave to that temptation? And then, while the irritated friend was yelling at us to leave his bed, a miracle happened: we heard a soft ka-kling-klang.

OH MY SWEET BOVINE I DIDN’T LOSE MY COWBELL AFTER ALL.

Having safely recovered my cowbell from being wedged between the bed and wall, crisis averted!, we all decided to retire for the evening, good night, sweet dreams, etc. etc.

I woke up WITHOUT my cowbell. Puzzling, but didn’t think much of it, left my guy friend a note to be on the lookout for it, went home, started my day.

FIVE DAYS later and my cowbell was still MIA. He has a small apartment, he doesn’t have that much stuff, only three of us could be considered as suspects; how can we keep losing this damn cowbell?

Finally, late last night, he texted: “Found a cowbell in my oven. I presume it’s yours.”

The best part is that NOT ONE OF US has ANY recollection as to HOW it came to be in the oven. Not a clue. None of us blacked out, one of the guys was the last to bed, another was the last to be in that room, and both of them have hinted that I was probably the one to hide it there for safekeeping.

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