Diary of a Mad Black Goat

I wonder where the phrase "got my goat" came from. As in, "you know what really gets my goat? Taxes!"

Is there a random goat somewhere that keeps disappearing? If so, who takes it, and where does it go? And why did you have the goat in the first place? Obviously not a very good caretaker, because if you had been watching it, no one would've gotten your goat. Now you are a goatless, irresponsible loser who smells like barn funk. And nobody likes a goatless, irresponsible loser. Sometimes we can deal with the barn funk.


Goat, if you're out there, I'd like to know how you feel about this. That's my job as as journalist, to ask "how does it make you FEEL?" And then I stand there while your lip quivers and you sob out the tragic story of how you were abused as a kid and bullied by the farm pigs, and now you are forced to live a life of walking around in public with some idiot who gets mad about things like taxes, and then all of sudden you *poof* into the netherworld of got-goatliness, where other confused, abused goats swirl around in the surreal ether of Out There, bleating in solemn despair, and how you'd give your left horn for the farm-pig-bullyin' days, when you could at least rely on one thing: getting your ass kicked. (Poor donkey, I heard he drowned on a raft from Cuba a few years back. Truly sorry, man.) I am here to serve, Goat. Tell me your story. Let it out.

And now a little friendly advice to all of you out there who regularly get your goat gotten: Stop it. No. Baaaaaaad. (I'm rubbing your nose in goat right now.)

Hug and kiss your barnyard pal today. Redeem thyselves.