A Side note from Adam: Okay… remember! You didn’t hear this from me.
The following story is definitely not politically correct. So, if any of you are deep into family values you might want to skip this story. In fact, it’s not even about dog training. But it is about animals and life on the farm, so if you enjoy home-spun humor, please continue reading this side-splitting story about what happened to my secretary, Shelley “who lives in Georgia” when she tried to sell one of her pet goat!
Okay, my story from yesterday… I hope it comes across in the email because this was the funniest to me and you would have to know me (which you do by now) to know how hysterically loud I am laughing about this.
I have a baby male goat I need to get rid of. I don’t want him to start breeding with his mother and get retarded goats. That would just not do around here. So, I put the word out that I was getting rid of Charlie Brown (that’s the goat in question). Yesterday morning, my aunt calls
me and says she found someone that wants him and he would be calling me.
That’s cool, whatever. She failed to tell me that this guy is the biggest, reddest, backwoods redneck that has ever walked the Earth.
You will never guess what his name is…. okay, I’ll tell you. Wormy. Yes, I said Wormy. Now, I truly hope that Wormy is his nickname and that somewhere his bigfoot redneck Momma didn’t decide that would be the cherished name of her offspring. So, going into this, I knew it was
goingto get comical.
So, he shows up around 8:30am yesterday morning to get my beloved Charlie Brown. We go out to the pasture and I show him which one will be his and he turns and looks at me and states… this is a word for word quote now, “Woman, that thar goat ain’t no billy. What ya have thar is a female.
See how that thang just squatted down to release its water? (as he squats to show me how the goat was squatting) Well, only the girl’s do that.
No ma’am. Yore Charlie Brown is a Charlotte.” Now, I was willing to take Mr. Wormy at his word, but just to drive the point home, he goes chasing after my little Charlie Brown and hog ties him in 30 seconds. He then flips my precious baby up on its back and points to the underside and
continues with, “See them tits right thar. Yore billies won’t have them sacs. Only yore females.” Can I just say that at this point, I’m already finding this the most humorous way to start my week? I mean comedy doesn’t get better than this. I just watched a 6 foot redneck, who
sounds like a 12 year old talking, named Wormy run through my pasture as if his life depended on it to chase down this poor defenseless goat to show me her tits. Comical, I tell ya. But wait, Adam, it only gets better… (Let me go fetch another cup of cappa and I’ll finish in a few).
Okay, so where was I… (That’s so cliche. I should be kicked in the mouth for that.)
So now, I am trying to hold in my laughter. But then I get concerned because he keeps eyeballing Big Boy. Now, Big Boy is Luke’s goat.
There would be 10 lifetimes of Hell to pay if I let that man take that goat away from here. So, I said politely, “You can’t have him. That’s my son’s goat and he’s not for sale.” In which he replied, “Oh no ma’am. I was just wonderin’ how you kep him sa clean.” I said, “I don’t do
anything. He keeps himself clean. The only problem I’m having with him is that he’s not getting my females pregnant.”
Wormy gets a perplexed look on his face and says, “Lady, summin ain’t rat here. That thar billy should be stankin’ to high tarnation and he ain’t. Cuz what usually will happen is the billy will stick his pencil out…”
“Hold on,” I say. “His what?” I’m thinking I’ve heard it all now.
What the hell is this man talking about a pencil for? I have never in my life heard anyone call the male apparatus a pencil and I shall remember this man for the rest of my life for that alone. My insides are shaking because I’m wanting to laugh so hard. It’s hurting actually.
“His pencil. You know what I’m talkin’ about don cha?”
“I think I do, go ahead and finish.”
“Okay. So, he’ll take his pencil and stick it out and [you-know-what on his beard. Then he’ll rub it all over the females. That’s what makes ’em stank. Are you shore yore billy hadden been castrated?”
“No Wormy, at this point, anything is possible. I was told he was intact when I got him, but then again, I was also told my baby goat was a male. You’ve proven me wrong once today, so I’d say you’re probably right.”
“Well ma’am… thar’s only one way we’s gonna found out, now ain’t thar? You know, it ain’t that hard to castrate these boys. You can just go thar in yore office and grab one of them rubber bands and wrap it tight around them balls. In 3 or 4 days, them thangs will just fall off like acorns. It’s real easy I tell ya.”
“That’s okay Wormy. I’ll leave that to the professionals.”
Now Wormy walks towards Big Boy. Big Boy has this deer in the headlights look. I’m sure he witnessed what happened with Charlie Brown and wasn’t looking forward to being the next victim. He must have seen the crazed look in Wormy’s eyes because the next thing I know, he’s running to me for protection and I’m scared that Wormy is liable to throw me down and hog tie me if I should get in the way of his investigation.
To be such a big, overgrown oaf, Wormy can move pretty swiftly. By the time I realized it was happening, he had reached around me, grabbed Big Boy by his horns and flipped him over and had him hog tied just like Charlie Brown. Now why isn’t this man in the rodeo circuit? He could
win some money. But I’ll have that talk with him on another day. I just want this to be over.
So there’s my Big Boy, hog tied and looking at me like I’ve sent him to slaughter. Wormy is doing his detective work and shouts out in the morning sunlight, “Hell yeah I wos right lady.
That thar goat ain’t got no balls. He caint stick his pencil out and that’s why yore females
ain’t gettin’ knocked up. Hot damn, I knew sommin’ wont rat.”
Please God, let this be over. I am so ashamed at this point. I’ve got a baby goat that had a sex change behind my back. I’ve got a big goat that somehow cut his balls off within the last 8 months and I’ve got the biggest redneck in all the universe smelling like tractor grease,
deisel fuel and 3 months of body odor all rolled into one, doing a victory dance in my field because he had solved the case of the mighty clean goats.
Does life get better than this? How can it? I have laughed my *%**% off for 2 days over this *%**%. I swear I love the people in the Deep South. And I’m not talking about the psuedo-southerners over there in Texas.
I’m talking about the deep rooted, good ol’ boys from the South that remind me constantly why I love this place. Next election, I am going to PENCIL in Wormy Newton for President. Won’t that be a hoot?!
That’s all for now, folks!