When Stan suggested a date, he hadn't expected Cartman to agree to it. Fucking on the old, torn up couch in his basement between pizza and video game marathons was fine, but a date was far too gay—or so Stan had expected Cartman to say. So he'd been surprised when Cartman not only enthusiastically agreed, but picked a secret destination and told Stan when he would pick him up.
Cartman drove them up a long, bumpy dirt road through the hills the cows grazed on, which Stan was relatively sure you weren't supposed to trespass on. The large NO TRESPASSING, TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT AT UNTIL DEAD signs on the gates Cartman rammed through were convincing evidence to support his theory.
Stan stopped wondered what the big surprise was when they coasted to a stop on the topmost hill. Cartman had found the only place with an unobstructed view of the drive-in screen that you didn't have to pay for. It was a very Cartman-esque thing to do, and with that and his hoarding of the snacks he'd brought with them, Stan stopped worrying about Cartman's uncharacteristic agreement to the date itself.
Stan tried to appease his growling stomach with the half-eaten bag of pork rinds he found under his seat. On the ride home Cartman unceremoniously shoved the end of his BIGulp at Stan with a short "Here"—Stan was touched, because those pork rinds were very salty and more than a little stale, until they hit one of the many bumps in the road and he was doused. "Damn it, Cartman!" he snapped as the aforementioned laughed, wiping soda off his face.
Cartman suddenly slammed on the breaks and Stan got another face full of cola; "Cartman," he barked, and his date (as it were) snapped "Ey, that time it wasn't my fault! They're a bunch of fucking cows in the road!"
Stan stared out the windshield and a cow stared back. He cursed, pushed his wet bangs out of his face, and climbed out of the car.
It wasn't just one cow; it was, as Cartman said, "a bunch of fucking cows". They were mulling about in the road, some bent over grazing, others chewing their cud as they stared at the car, vacant expressions on their faces. Stan tried pushing them out of the way, to no avail. They were as unmovable as... well, as Cartman, except Stan could always get Cartman to budge with bribes of food, or sex, or a union of the two... and as much of an animal lover as Stan was, he still wasn't ready to make the jump to inter-species erotica.
A horn suddenly blared; Stan jumped a foot and, when he came back down, put his left foot into a muddy puddle. "Cartman!" he shouted for the third time that evening, whipping around. Cartman managed to look angelic long enough to force out an innocent, "Just trying to help get them off the road," before he dissolved into hysterics.
Stan growled and turned back to address the closest cow. "Please get out of the way?" he pled. The cow paused in its chewing and stared at him.
Stan met its gaze, attempting to stare it down.
...The cow started chewing again, flicking its tail.
"You leave me little choice, Betsy," Stan said, rolling up his sleeves, spitting in his palm, and rubbing his hands together. He pictured the cow as the running back they'd set him up against in football tryouts, and charged.
Stan was stopped short and fell backward on his ass, just like football tryouts. He could hear Cartman sniggering (also like football tryouts). Stan elected to stay sitting, propping his back up against the front bumper. It was a new moon—ideal conditions for drive-ins—and it was pitch black save for the light provided by Cartman's headlights, shining on rows after rows of road-blocking heifers.
"I'm eating hamburger every day until I die," Stan said bitterly.
Cartman climbed out of the car, slamming the door after him, and the car sprang back up on its wheels with the removal of the extra weight, only to sag again when Cartman tried sliding across the hood. He lost momentum halfway across, so sat there and pretended that's what he'd intended to do all along. He nudged the base of Stan's skull with the toe of his shoe.
"Knock it off," Stan snapped, whacking his ankle.
"Come up here," Cartman whined.
"I'm fine here," Stan said irritably. He was ticked off at Cartman: it was his fault they were stranded out there.
"Alright," Cartman said snidely, "but you realize you're more likely than not sitting in a cow pie, right?"
Stan leapt up immediately, twisting around to try and examine his ass in the high beams. Cartman looked on appreciatively, sniggering all the while. Stan scowled at him, then grabbed hold of the hood and pulled himself up, backward, drawing his feet up and looking at the mostly-starless sky.
The more he thought about it, the more he decided this cow intervention was the universe's way of telling him getting involved with Cartman was a terrible idea. Even if he ignored Cartman's megalomania, there was the Kyle Factor. If Kyle ever found out, he'd probably have a conniption and have to be committed. He and Cartman didn't relate at all, anyway.
As if to prove this silent admission, Cartman chose this moment to say, "So the date went pretty well, huh?"
"Are you KIDDING me? What was the best part, the cheap movie seats, or having the road barricaded by a bunch of cows?!"
"Christ, you shriek like a bitch."
Stan pinched the bridge of his nose and counted to ten silently. "How long do you think we're going to be stuck out here?" he asked, wondering how long it would take people to notice he was gone. Of course he could come up with a thousand non-gay explanations for why he'd be out with Cartman in the middle of night; he wasn't worried about that. But Stan didn't want to be "SHOT AT UNTIL DEAD," and the longer they stayed in the cow pasture the more likely it was the farmer would discover them.
Cartman shrugged. "'Til the cows come home."
Stan burst out laughing, a testament to his delicate mental state. Cartman's face scrunched up as Stan fell against him, holding his sides and laughing until they ached. "Are you mental?" he demanded, and Stan supposed he must be, at least a little, to have willing entered into this non-relationship. Stan calmed down and rested his forehead on Cartman's shoulder. The nice thing about Cartman was that, in direct contrast with his personality, his body had only soft edges.
"Why'd you agree to a date, Cartman?" Stan wondered aloud.
"Don't good dates always end in sex?"
Face, Palm, have you been formally introduced? I think it's time for you appendages to get better acquainted.
"Oh," Stan mumbled into his hand, "is that what you heard?"
"Well YEAH. Why else would we be out here together?"
Stan looked out at the cows and the dark sky and considered that the only times they could be "together" was in the out theres—enclosed in enclosures knee-deep in bullshit.
It was almost poetic.
"No reason," Stan muttered, leaning back into Cartman. Which was perfectly true, because logical thought would have kept him far, far away from Eric Cartman. "No reason at all."