0
0
I thought about writing a review of George Clooney’s new movie The Men Who Stare at Goats, but since that would involve research and note-taking (things that are clearly associated with doing work), I said, “Forget that!” and took a nap on the couch instead.
Besides, watching men stare at goats can’t be all that exciting because if it were, I’d have a line of people paying good money to watch me watch my goats, but they don’t, so I didn’t, and now I’ve forgotten what I was talking about. Oh, yes! Goats.
In the beginning, God created all the fish in the sea, all the birds in the sky, all the creatures that live on dry land, and when He was done, He said, “It is good, but I’m not so sure about those goats. Somebody needs to keep an eye them.” Thus, God created Adam, who became the first Man Who Stared at Goats.
Getting back to the movie; since I haven’t seen it yet, and I probably won’t because I’m too cheap to spend the money (you just can’t go to the movies without buying an ice-cold fountain drink and a large tub of hot-buttered popcorn—that would be simply un-American), I’ve decided to present my own version, called The Man Who Stares at Goats, in my own backyard, with shows starting at 1:15, 3:45, and 5:50, and it only costs $1. Every seat is a good one, but it’s BYOP (bring your own popcorn).
Goats can be interesting to watch, as long as you have a comfortable chair, a tall glass of iced tea, and a good book to read. But they’re even more interesting to watch when you’re not watching them at all. That’s when all the Little Goat Mysteries occur—the ones that can never be solved.
Goat Mystery No. 1: Why are the goats on my porch, and how did they get there? There are no discernable signs of a Goat Breakout—no tunnels under the fence, no Goat Getaway Car circling the pen—so how did they do it? Did they just sprout wings and fly themselves out? And, if so, who paid for the flying lessons because it certainly was not me!
Goat Mystery No. 2: Why are the goats staring at me like that? What exactly are they thinking? Is it possible they’re using Goat Telepathy to lull me into a sense of okay-ness, but when I turn my back they’ll disappear in a puff of smoke like a Goat Jedi Knight? And, if so, where do they put their light sabers, because I don’t think they have any pockets.
Goat Mystery No. 3: Why do the goats prefer to chew on my new khaki pants when they have good, green grass to munch on? If they like khaki, would they also like flannel? What about car parts? If I parked my old truck in the goat pen, would it be gone after a week? And, if so, would it give the goats constipation?
Goat Mystery No. 4: Sometimes, when I don’t want to go outside to watch the goats, I stare at them through the window—and they know it. But how? Certainly they can’t see me. Do they have an innate Goat Sixth Sense that makes the hair under their chiny-chin-chin stand up when they’re being watched?
And Goat Mystery No. 5: If I shine a flashlight at my goats and their eyes shine, why does it give me the willies? Cat eyes do the same thing, but it’s not as creepy. Shining Goat Eyes make you believe that if you slowly back away, you’ll be okay, but if you turn and run, those little buggers will chase you down, gore you in the leg, drag you to the ground by your khaki pants, and feast upon every ounce of eatable you!
But I like my goats. They’re funny. Sometimes they’re a bit noisy. Sometimes they head butt each other like goats are known to do. Sometimes they escape, and we find them walking down the road, trying to catch a ride with the neighbors. Sometimes they look at me as if they’re saying, “You can’t make me do anything, mister!” And sometimes I just want to take them to the nearest butcher shop and fill my freezer with goat sausage and stew meat.
But I don’t, because I am The Man Who Stares at Goats—rated PG-13 for sometimes thinking really bad thoughts about them, but not very often.
