|
|
|
| "AMERICA'S FUNNIEST HUMOR"TM
SHOWCASE
|
|
|
August /
September 2006 Contest Results |
The Goat
Purchasers
By Tom O'Brien,
Ontario
Surprised and amazed I was last Saturday when goat purchasers arrived at
our farm in a white stretch limousine. It had to be thirty-five feet
long. As it came closer to our house and barn, I heard the clatter of
loose beer bottles inside. A heavy stench filled the nearby air. Before
it came to a stop beside our house, three men tumbled from a rear door.
Soon there were four more men and four women trying to stand upright in
our barnyard. Two showed signs of extreme exhaustion and/or gross
hangovers.
Before I could welcome them, they all walked unsteadily to the small
enclosure with our well-fed animals that were for sale. I wanted to
follow them.
"Hey you," croaked a voice. I looked behind me and I saw a very
rattled and disheveled limousine driver leaning against her vehicle. Her
forehead was awash in perspiration. Any creature close to her armpits
would have drowned. A cigarette dangled in each of her trembling hands.
A feather clung in her gray-red hair. As I walked closer to where she
was standing, a rooster crowed from inside her limousine. Every chicken
for miles around knew its desires. She jammed both cigarettes into her
mouth, reached inside the front door, and wrung its neck. Her colourful
observations about chicken and goat purchasers will remain with me
forever.
As the passengers examined the goats that were for sale, I asked whether
she wished to make a purchase. She fixed me with a soul-destroying look.
A brain-challenged bee circled her head.
She drew herself upwards making her four feet and eight inches tower
above any birdbath.
"Goatman," she said in a low voice, "I was supposed to work a
ten-hour wedding today that would have paid my overdue bank payments for
the last three months. Instead I had to take on this, this … this bunch
of goat buyers who first bought a live chicken from one of your neighbours
and now they want one of your goats in my limousine."
From
that point onward, I experienced an unforgettable screaming tirade that
would have bleached a stevedore. Her views about the jilting members of
a bridal party were mild compared to her disdain for those present
passengers who transport live chickens in her spotless limousine. After
I offered condolences about any chicken poops on her dashboard, she
stared at me and flicked cigarette ashes near my face.
On hearing a low snore and whistle, I opened a rear door and viewed the
source. A very inebriated man lay face-up on the red broadloom between
the plush white leather seats. Big bubbles grew and burst on his lips.
Without a word, she reached inside and grabbed a fistful of his hair.
Then, and without a peep, 'The Body' landed on our driveway.
After she kicked sand and gravel near his face, she pulled at my ear
lobe and promised much grief if a goat ever got near her vehicle. I did
not question her request.
The goat purchasers shook their heads as they walked towards us. They
were upset that none of the goats had horns. One of the purchasers
wanted my champion 250 pound buck.
Before I could tell them that the breeding buck was not for sale, the
driver approached them on a full sprint and told them where to "put it."
One of their members, a heavyset woman with a very concerned look on her
face, approached me and said, "Might you have a small cow for sale." I
walked away from her believing that the limousine driver would have
strangled me if I appeared in cow selling mode.
Another member, a young man in his late twenties with bloodshot eyes,
asked why his friend was "splawled … hic" on the driveway. "Shut up
and get in the limousine, NOW," snapped the driver. As the inquisitor
fell down beside the rear door, she blew smoke rings while three women
placed 'The Body' in the trunk.
.
|
