Farmer H would be locked up, key at the bottom of a landfill, if he had criminal tendencies. He's just not a good liar. And he's always setting himself up to be caught. Like a couple days ago, when I noticed my Crocs out of place. The stalling game, rather than a quick denial of wearing them, while under interrogation, resulted in his conviction, though the judge and jury saved him from the executioner.
Tuesday, Farmer H returned to the Mansion for lunch, to heat up some hot dogs he'd grilled on Gassy G Jr, under the Christmas lights, the night before. He was moving things around in the kitchen, hollering to me in the living room, that he was going to bring some of the Ponytail Guy's milk over from the BARn.
"This milk in here is bad," he said, peering at the date, then setting it back on the shelf.
"Wait a minute! Are you going to LEAVE it there? You just said it was bad! WHO does that? You picked it up, read the date, and PUT IT BACK! Do you think it's MY job to go in there and throw it out?"
Farmer H sighed, making sure I could hear it in the living room. He opened up FRIG II again, took out the milk, and left through the laundry room. He can't simply pour bad milk off the back porch. He has to soggy-up the dogs' dry food with it. I hope the squirrels like dog food cereal!
Seriously. That milk was in there for making some flavored noodle packets. We had not used it, because of so much Ponytail Guy freebies. The only usage had been Farmer H, having a glass with his cherry pie in the days after Thanksgiving. There was about half a half-gallon of milk left. Past the date. I don't think about milk, because I don't drink it. I wasn't cooking with it. So I figured if it was past the date, then Farmer H, the guy who'd been drinking it on a nightly basis, would have discarded it.
Which he DID. One way, or another...