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All of my problems would be solved with the purchase of a goat to mow my lawn
The rule was simple: don’t become attached to food animals—so Sophie the milk goat, Thomas Jefferson, the adopted orphan baby deer, Thumper the stud rabbit and Ocho, the calf born on 8/8 were all safe—the same could not be said of the goat named 4th of July BBQ, the steer named Ribeye, the piglet named Bacon and the innumerable rabbits named Hossenpfeffer.
You don’t hear much about the Goatman of Alcatraz, mostly on account of there being too darn many of them.
In the rare case that one is lucky enough to find employment with a company that does keep a goat, the employee will often find that the mandated training regarding proper use of the milking stool, as well as the extensive documentation that must be read, usually during one’s personal time, is overwhelming, causing most employees to either avoid the goat whenever possible, especially during breaks or lunch hours, or in some cases, even attempt to pretend that the goat simply does not exist.
It’s not that Jeremy minded all the fruits, it’s just that the goat’s horn really began to smell after a while.
So…everyone one gets mildew wear, imprinted with goats.
My long awaited invitation to the “National Goat Show” arrived this morning.
“Why are [goats] such sensitive animals, and yet simultaneously so boundlessly stupid, like poets and artists?”
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