We've had you for six years now. For six years I've been wishing and hoping you'd magically turn into a nice, happy and well adjusted goat. Last week you gored my leg with your horn. My calf is now a lovely shade of green and yellow. I am tired of you and your evilness. I'm tired of the red gleam you get in your eye when you see me enter the pen. I'm tired of your dominance you have over all of the other animals including the miniature horses that each have 150 pounds on you. It saddens me when I see you chase the goat babies around the pen trying to catch them. It gives me pleasure to see them outrun you and your overweight body. I don't know what to do with you. I'd eat you if I was that kind of person, but luckily for you I don't eat my "pets". I don't classify you as a pet though. Pets aren't normally spawns of Satan. Pets don't gore their owners. I don't normally will my pets to fall over dead. But you, I am making an exception. Every day I hope to find you deceased. What a happy and joyful barn yard it would be. Hay would be easy to eat, without you dominating every pile. Sleep would be uninterrupted without you running amok terrorizing all. I would be able to enter the pen without a whip at my side. But alas you seem to be the hardiest goat on the face of the planet. Since you try to kill me on a daily basis I find it unnecessary to worm you and trim your hooves. After all I can't even catch you without you trying to dismember me with your horns. Satan is calling you home GoatMan, listen to him.
|El Crappy GoatMan up on his royal perch.|