UnBooks:Did you ever lock horns with a goat?のソースを表示ひょうじ

[[File:Irish Goat.jpg|300px|thumb|{{Center|'''Who you lookin' at?'''}}]]
{{UnBooks}}

'''Did you ever lock horns with a goat?'''

Well I did! You can see the marks, right [[here]], under my hairflap.

This locking-of-the-horns contest lasted about a minute, back last July 30th. I was at a [[picnic]] at somebody's farm sponsored by the gang down at Louie's, had too many [[beer]]s, and wandered through the gate that held up the NO TRESPASSING sign, and there I found the strange falling-down-around-itself building containing the [[goat]]s. Hundreds of them! Dozens! Smelling like a mountain of year-old hay and all walking towards me with those HOOVES click-click-clacking on the tile floor of this place I had wandered into, it may have been painted red, what in God's holy name ''was'' this place? I have no idea, not to this very day. Red paint, maybe a drinking bucket or a table, and the goats. Dozens of them.

Then one of them charged, and that brought me back to my [[Smell|sense]]s pronto. I put my head down, WHAM, we crashed against each other and locked horns. My peaked skin arrows wrapped around his horns, and his horns crunched against my exposed brainpan as we pushed each other across what-is-this-place and all the other goats lined up on either side of us and they were WATCHING, I swear to God, they were watching and some of them were cheering! We backed off, got on our hind legs in the air, and then, WHAM, came together again, our headbutt echoing and game for more.

Oh fuck, the memories fade out about then; blood loss? But when I awoke on this farmer's daughter's bed with my head wrapped in bandages and soot, the daughter rubbing her back against my exposed elbow, going at it like there was no tomorrow, I looked around{{SP}}– I swear this is true{{SP}}– to see if the goat was in the room. Because I still wanted it, I wanted to lock horns with the motherfucker and PUSH, push it across the tile floor {{W|Pan|my hooves}} click-click-clackedy and the gang on either side bleating and shuffling their feet in support. God, I never felt so [[Alive with pleasure|alive]] as I did standing on that floor, body covered in combat [[musk]], unblinking wild eyes drilling into mine, with my brain leaking onto the horns of that creature. Blood all over, yet I still held my own for a MINUTE!

Yeah, time has gone by. Life just isn't fun anymore, the thrill of the fight was too intense for anything else to compare now. Even though the farmer's daughter comes by once a week to rub her back against my elbow or my {{W|shoulder}}, and then we eat some kind of dinner or other, usually [[corn]], I think her name is Nancy something, it's not enough. I lived man! Can you understand me? I was ALIVE for a whole MINUTE back last July.

And when they chip-chip-chippedy my life onto my [[tombstone]] I want it to say "HE LOCKED HORNS WITH A GOAT AND LIVED TO TELL THE TALE".

The air smelled fresher for a long time after that, like I was five again and netting crayfish out of the mud at the lagoon.

And I [[Dreaming|dream]] that sacred sound at least every second night, I [[Madness|dream]] it like I was back there, past the NO TRESPASSING sign, fully alive again:

'''Click'''
:'''Click'''
::'''Clackedy'''

{{FA|date=26 July 2013|revision=5398232}}

[[Category:Goats]]
[[Category:Goatseisms]]
[[Category:Combat sports]]
[[Category:Alive]]
[[Category:FA UnBooks]]
[[Category:FA Animals]]