1973, Student Mission Corps, our one-week training in San Antonio. This day we were doing puppetry. One of the instructors came up with a big hand puppet, the kind that covers your whole hand and extends down halfway to your elbow.
Holding the puppet up, he exclaimed, “This is Clara! Clara is a cow.” “No, wait a minute,” he said, and then he manipulated his hand inside the puppet. “I take that back,” he said. “Clara is a bull.” Huge laughs. Later that day, he was back with Clara, held it up and said, “Clara is a cow—no, a bull,” an obvious play for laughs on his previous success, but all he got were charity titters.
Someone at my table, I don’t know who, called out, “Well, don’t milk it.” Then the laughs.
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