Let me tell you about a goat.
Today, I find myself lacking anything closely resembling motivation or inspiration, but I know if I don't write again, I'll fall off the wagon. After talking to my best friend, I decided I'd tell you about our Epic Goat Maneuver.
It all started with a prank war.
My parents were deep into a prank extravaganza with a couple of friends from their church. Roger and Cathy were winning after filling a toilet with flowers and planting it in our suburban front yard. I loved it; our neighbors did not. After much scrutiny, my parents got to talking about retaliation. Their diabolical scheme: chain a farm animal in Roger and Cathy's front yard. Which animal, of course, was a topic of high debate. A cow would be too large, a chicken too small; a donkey, although fantastic, would be far too expensive. Finally, they settled on a goat. Being the daughter that I am, I took it upon myself to acquire one.
"Give me three phone calls," I declared, "and I'll get you a goat!"
So, I made my three calls. My calls made some calls of their own. And then we waited.
Wednesday next, phone calls having never come to fruition and myself having nothing better to do, I spent the evening driving around with Murphy.
"Where can you get a goat at eight on a Wednesday night?" He curiously inquired.
Determined to answer such a heavy question, Murphy made a call to his dad. Murphy's dad made a call to his sister. Murphy's aunt, it so happened, lived on a farm about two hours outside of Springfield. Lo and behold, this aunt's goat had recently given birth to a couple of kids.
Adventure! I thought.
Eighth of a tank of gas, replied my car.
Eh, that's enough to drive for a few hours...right?
We hit the highway.
We drove. Past small towns, through smaller ones, and finally into the smallest of them all: Buffalo, Missouri. A few dirt roads later we pulled into his aunt's driveway. As we did, the gas light clicked on and obscenities flew.
Too high on adrenalin and evil goat-filled dreams, I didn't worry about it. Instead, I went to retrieve my kid.
It was tiny, red and white, with itty-bitty, baby horns. After convincing Murphy's aunt we weren't going to eat or injure the animal--other than chain it in a yard--we got back in the car and took off once more.
Goat happily bleating on Murphy's lap, we hunted for a gas station. As it turns out, in the country, gas stations close at ten....
So there we are, the middle of nowhere, car about to conk out, a lesbian and a goat in KKK country. I could just hear the banjos now.
Murphy assumed, being a white evangelical male, that he was more than safe. I was all too quick to point out that he was tiny, with long hair, and has "a purdy mouth"; republican or not, he was just as fucked as I was should a rogue band of countrified, neo-Nazis come upon us in our stalled out car.
I feared should my car "shit out," Murphy and I would go meandering down dark dirt roads past eerie white churches, carrying a rather unhappy fluff ball with horns. I want to make a lamb of God joke here, but I'm not sure it would work.
It is at this point that I begin to pray as I nervously patted the goat.
"Hi, Jesus. So, did you know gas stations around these parts closed at ten? Yeah, I didn't. So this whole running on empty thing, could you maybe make that work out for us? I know you have important things to do that don't involve goats and gasoline, but I'm sure you can appreciate the outlandishness of the situation, so if you'd help out here that would be awesome. I'd really rather Murphy, Steve the Goat, and I not be murdered by hill people. Thanks, your awesome, talk to you later, amen."
Murphy is one of the few people, aside from Jesus apparently, who does not frown upon my unorthodox style of prayer. Steve was dubbed the miracle goat. Like the oil lamps of Hanukkah past, the gas in my car lasted infinitely longer than it should have. I may never know what truly got us home that night, but whatever the case may be, I will always remember Steve as my little miracle goat. Jesus listens to goats. Either that, or God really doesn't have much to do up there.
Incidentally, the goat never ended up chained in Roger and Cathy's yard. He was too good for a prank.
Today, I find myself lacking anything closely resembling motivation or inspiration, but I know if I don't write again, I'll fall off the wagon. After talking to my best friend, I decided I'd tell you about our Epic Goat Maneuver.
It all started with a prank war.
My parents were deep into a prank extravaganza with a couple of friends from their church. Roger and Cathy were winning after filling a toilet with flowers and planting it in our suburban front yard. I loved it; our neighbors did not. After much scrutiny, my parents got to talking about retaliation. Their diabolical scheme: chain a farm animal in Roger and Cathy's front yard. Which animal, of course, was a topic of high debate. A cow would be too large, a chicken too small; a donkey, although fantastic, would be far too expensive. Finally, they settled on a goat. Being the daughter that I am, I took it upon myself to acquire one.
"Give me three phone calls," I declared, "and I'll get you a goat!"
So, I made my three calls. My calls made some calls of their own. And then we waited.
Wednesday next, phone calls having never come to fruition and myself having nothing better to do, I spent the evening driving around with Murphy.
"Where can you get a goat at eight on a Wednesday night?" He curiously inquired.
Determined to answer such a heavy question, Murphy made a call to his dad. Murphy's dad made a call to his sister. Murphy's aunt, it so happened, lived on a farm about two hours outside of Springfield. Lo and behold, this aunt's goat had recently given birth to a couple of kids.
Adventure! I thought.
Eighth of a tank of gas, replied my car.
Eh, that's enough to drive for a few hours...right?
We hit the highway.
We drove. Past small towns, through smaller ones, and finally into the smallest of them all: Buffalo, Missouri. A few dirt roads later we pulled into his aunt's driveway. As we did, the gas light clicked on and obscenities flew.
Too high on adrenalin and evil goat-filled dreams, I didn't worry about it. Instead, I went to retrieve my kid.
It was tiny, red and white, with itty-bitty, baby horns. After convincing Murphy's aunt we weren't going to eat or injure the animal--other than chain it in a yard--we got back in the car and took off once more.
Goat happily bleating on Murphy's lap, we hunted for a gas station. As it turns out, in the country, gas stations close at ten....
So there we are, the middle of nowhere, car about to conk out, a lesbian and a goat in KKK country. I could just hear the banjos now.
Murphy assumed, being a white evangelical male, that he was more than safe. I was all too quick to point out that he was tiny, with long hair, and has "a purdy mouth"; republican or not, he was just as fucked as I was should a rogue band of countrified, neo-Nazis come upon us in our stalled out car.
I feared should my car "shit out," Murphy and I would go meandering down dark dirt roads past eerie white churches, carrying a rather unhappy fluff ball with horns. I want to make a lamb of God joke here, but I'm not sure it would work.
It is at this point that I begin to pray as I nervously patted the goat.
"Hi, Jesus. So, did you know gas stations around these parts closed at ten? Yeah, I didn't. So this whole running on empty thing, could you maybe make that work out for us? I know you have important things to do that don't involve goats and gasoline, but I'm sure you can appreciate the outlandishness of the situation, so if you'd help out here that would be awesome. I'd really rather Murphy, Steve the Goat, and I not be murdered by hill people. Thanks, your awesome, talk to you later, amen."
Murphy is one of the few people, aside from Jesus apparently, who does not frown upon my unorthodox style of prayer. Steve was dubbed the miracle goat. Like the oil lamps of Hanukkah past, the gas in my car lasted infinitely longer than it should have. I may never know what truly got us home that night, but whatever the case may be, I will always remember Steve as my little miracle goat. Jesus listens to goats. Either that, or God really doesn't have much to do up there.
Incidentally, the goat never ended up chained in Roger and Cathy's yard. He was too good for a prank.
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