I Don't Know Where
Milk Come From
By Peter Soucy
June 12, 2007 8:47am At my kitchen table, with a ray of sunlight shining on my perfectly waxed penis, the thought comes to me. It comes to me with all the emotional impact of getting diabetes as a relatively skinny person. I take a sip of the sweet, creamy, life-giving substance that we’ve all known in some way, and say out loud to no one: “I don’t know where milk come from!” And I mean it. I don’t know where milk come from! I make a pledge to myself that I will do whatever it takes to find out where milk come from.
June 12, 2017 8:47am Exactly ten years later, my ADHD finally lets me go on my trip to discover where milk come from. What I never thought I’d find along the way? Myself. And my biological father. No, no, it was just myself, and maybe where milk come from. I’m not gonna tell you yet, you pervert. I start to pack a rucksack with all the essentials: - Water - Underwear - Milk - Minerals - A Trojan Magnum stuffed inside a Magnum Thin stuffed inside a
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Magnum Extra Thin - A laptop rigged to blow up a plane - 18 pairs of socks Once I have all the essentials packed, it is time to start my journey.
June 14, 2017 2:28pm I figure the first place to look where milk come from will be where all life come from. I arrive in Bethlehem around midday. Everyone who’s smart knows Jesus was the first human and he tinkled on some flowers and that’s how girls were made. From there it’s just basic humanity and science, and now we have stores where frozen yogurt slithers out of the wall. I hike up a large mountain until I find a wandering shepherd. He is rather handsome in a smelly, sheep-man kind of way. “Hello, baba,” I say to him. He hisses and wallops me with his thick stick. Then he turns into a snake, and the staff turns into a man. Then the snake turns into a staff, and the man turns into a smaller man with no hair. I figure there is just some leftover Jesus magic in this place. The small bald man turns to me and, in the most revolting, pure-blooded Australian accent, asks if I need any assistance. I ask him how he came to Bethlehem all the way from Australia. He says I was in Australia, “mate.” Turns out my laptop bomb timing was off and I’ve landed in the wrong dusty country. All those people died for nothing. I cry in the small man’s scarily large arms. When I am finished, the small man offers me a strange looking sack. “Milk,” he says. I start to milk the sack to no avail. “No, milk.” He points to the top of the sack and removes a cork. I bring the sack, which must’ve been one of his sheep’s lungs, to my nose. I take a delicate whiff. It smells like the first time you smell a YMCA locker room after you’ve see a grown man naked in it—I knew it must be fresh. “Where did you harvest this milk?” I ask him. He tells me to follow him. He takes me into his stable where either a dangerously obese or extremely pregnant sheep is lying. He turns to me and clasps my hand. “I don’t know where milk come from. Lamb come from shake,” he says. The words ring around my head like a nun ringing a bell around my head. Lamb come from shake. What does it all mean? After two days of guided meditation with the small Australian Shepherd*, the blob of sheep in front of us starts shaking. My small, spiritual sack carrier walks over to the animal. “Lamb come from shake,” he yells, and picks up the sheep at least twice his size.
This guy is strong and I bow my head to pray for his blessing. “LAMB COME FROM SHAKE!” He yells, and vigorously shakes the fat, woolen animal back and forth. After several forceful shakes, a small lamb dives out of the sheep’s loving hole and lands in a bucket of water with perfect form. It all makes sense now. Lamb in fact come from shake! Tired from his vigorous shaking, the small man collapses and turns back into a regular man, then into a staff. This is cool and all, but still, where milk come from? As I turn to make the long journey home, preparing to do harm to anyone who comes in my way and maybe even some people who just end up in my way by no fault of their own, I hear a small suckle. I turn and, to my surprise, the baby lamb starts licking the—now incredibly in shape—sheep’s underbelly, the elder’s jellyfish nipples now hanging taut like squishy, maternal stalactite. And what happened next? Milk. So much milk pours out of the sheep’s pink sack that I become happy, and then start crying.
June 14, 2017 2:29pm After crying for a while, I decide I should try the milk. I plant my soft lips on the even softer tentacles of this woman and begin to suck. The creamy nectar floods my mouth with intense fattiness and sustenance. “Now this where milk come from!” I yell. Suddenly, the small lamb faces me and turns into my dad (I lied earlier). “Son,” he places a hand on my shoulder, “milk come from all of us.” He speaks with a tone of stern sincerity that, despite feeling a bit rehearsed, had nonetheless been missing from my life for as long as I could remember. “Dad, what do you mean?” I ask. He takes my hand, and opens his mouth as if to talk at me again. And then, just as quickly as he appeared and taught me some things about milk, he disappears. I look all around, and then down, and I see that he has transformed into a million fire ants. They’re Australian, and so they’re big. I squash every last one. *not the dog breed