The Goat's Take
Note: The Goat hasn't been timely with his posts lately. So, to make up for that, I decided to lenghen this one quite considerably. Don't start bitching. i missed my cartoons this morning to get this up. You should feel honored. Bitches.
The Goat's Take
This Week's Topic:
PHOEBE'S LAST RIDE
Whether that sassy bitch would like to admit it or not, she was on her last leg. After an extensive history of breaking down and fucking me up the ass with repair bills, the Goat has decided to cash in my chips after a particularly lengthy amount of time with no repairs. Phoebe has served me well...that is, if you consider serving me well leaving me no choice to stack up some hefty debt (broken cars can't drive you to school so you can gain an education and rule the world some day). So, I decided to kick that bitch out and get a brand spanking new car.
Someone asked, "But Goat, do you think that's wise? Did you get your money's worth out of that car?"
My retort, "Damn...a hobo would have gotten their moneys worth with that car. It was a piece of shit." Don't believe me? I had to drive around with the heat blasting full strength, or else Phoebe would overheat and scream at me. That makes for a nice and leisurely ride in the summertime. I know the oxygen sensors were shot, because that's what many mechanics told me: "You know, both of your oxygen sensors are shot."
"Can it still drive okay without them?"
"Yeah, but-"
"That's all I need to hear." And with that, I peeled away. I know damn well there's oxygen in the air. Why the fuck would I need a sensor to tell me so? Believe me...that car was ready to blow up one final time, and I didn't want to be the one to pay for it. Here is the story of the Goat's search for a new vehicle. Enjoy it, you douchebags; it might be the last thing you ever do.
Tyranny of the Walrus
If any of you have ever shopped for a car, you all know it is total bullshit, and people should just be given free cars without all that hassle of paying for it and wheeling and dealing with all those jackass salespeople. The Goatress and I have gone car shopping before, so we were already prepared for what was to come. The first place we stopped, we had an objective to go in, test drive a car, and move on to the next place to drive. After all, we had a tight schedule that day. Little did we know, the epitome of car salesman met us as soon as we so much as glanced at a new car.
This man was at least three sizes larger than the largest man ever to drink mayonnaise. He talked with the urgency of three ER doctors, and wasted no time in assuming that everyone but him was a dumb, stupid sucker. When he talked, his jowls reverberated with a rhythm so familiarly associated with Jell-o. He reminded me of a walrus, and I expected that, at any moment, he would let out a great roar, shake his body in a fit of rage, and gore us with his tusks. From that very first moment he waddled out to us, I knew we were in trouble.
We tried to tell him that we just wanted to test drive the car, but it was no use. He dove headfirst into his well-rehearsed spiel and did not allow us to interrupt and get a word in whatsoever. He wheeled deals with a fluid grace that could only be mustered by an intricately programmed, walrus-shaped robot. He would ask us a question, wait for us to half-answer, change the subject, ask another question, then not even bother letting us respond before he changed topics again. This started to piss us off, because the Goatress was on a timeline, and if she were late for class, she would have no choice but to go on the warpath; and when that happens, motherfuckers get hurt. This salesperson cared not one bit. He wasted more and more of our time with details of a sale that was quickly escaping from the Goat's interests. He kept handing papers to people to make copies for us, and squawked constantly for his assistants to do shit for him. He made phone calls to his 'friends higher up' regarding rare coupons. Now, asshole or not, I was impressed that this walrus summoned the help of angels to make this sale work, because I know for a fact there was nobody on the roof. However, before I could even contemplate what the hell that meant, he was on to the next topic. This guy would not stop talking. I think he even told us that he could pitch in a free hand job from his car-equivalent of a paralegal.
Forty or fifty fucking minutes after arrival, he finally got around to getting a key, so we could test drive this vehicle. Good thing we had a billion other places to be that day and were wasting the day in front of this abdominal sweat bucket. He told us that we could test drive it for as long as we wanted, but then started to talk in raising velocity. Once he was distracted with breathing in before another verbal assault, I punched his lights clear out and swiped the keys.
We test-drove that car all right. Test drove it right to the driveway of Goat Manor and left it there. Fuck that guy; we'll keep his car hostage while we test drive other cars. Jumping into the non-Phoebe Goat Laboratories, Inc. company vehicle (Pierre Tyrone), we went to the next place. We marched in and told them that we wanted to test drive a vehicle. The guy looked at us and said, "Okay," and dropped the keys right into my hand. Now, was that so fucking hard? I should have taken this car and drove it into the office of that asswipe walrus. Coo coo ca-choo this, motherfucker...SMASH. I'm sorry, did I run directly over your trachea?
Goat's Revenge
Seeing that the Goatress had class shortly, we decided to return all the cars that we were driving around. With ten minutes before the Goatress had to be leaving, we found ourselves sitting in front of the infernal walrus once again. His jowls were quaking at the mere inkling of a sale. He asked us how we liked our test drive, but immediately started crunching numbers as soon as we started to reply. Sure enough, we were faced with ten minutes of straight bullshitting and fathead sales person talk. His assistants were throwing him smelt to reward him of the fantastic job he was doing. He gobbled it all up mid-sentence and kept rambling on about more useless shit.
The Goatress got real pissed, told the walrus that she had to go to class, and then to marched out of the door. The walrus hardly noticed, so he kept flapping his gums at an alarming rate. The Goat here had already been pissed for quite a while, and was about to smash his face with some mighty fine steel toe action. Instead, an opportunity opened up right before my eyes, and it was just too tempting to let pass.
His paralegal came in the cubicle and announced that there was a couple that just arrived to see the walrus about picking up a car. My, my, my...guess who now has an appointment to uphold? Guess who will now be late for said appointment? That's right mister walrus, your time is up, chump. Chomp on this tasty revenge salad with a healthy side of cock. You see, it was in this walrus' nature to keep talking, and if the customer had a question, he had no choice but to answer. All of the sudden, the Goat became the most curious customer / Chatty Cathy ever to live. I can say, with no ego, that this was probably one of the best things I have ever done in my life. As soon as that paralegal made her announcement and left, the Goat started asking questions about the car, and listened patiently as the walrus spewed his foul drivel. I made it sound like I was real interested in buying a car from this whiskery mammal. After a little while, I shifted the conversation to useless chitchat. I asked him about his children, I talked about my job, about the nature of Goat Dog, the weather, the job market in Albuquerque, and even ice cream. No one will try and out-bullshit the Goat and get away with it. Not on my clock. He refused to be rude and tell me that I had to leave, not when he thought I was about to buy a car. I just kept talking, wasting his time, and making him late for anything else he had to do that day. How about them Red Sox? Ever mix bleach and ammonia? I have a friend that has pi memorized to the thirty-eighth decimal. Blah, blah, fuckity-blah.
He started to panic, but I kept talking. He looked at the clock, looked around, and tried to send me some subliminal signals that it was my time to leave the dealership. Guess who didn't bite. I kept talking. How do you like that, you bastard walrus? At one point, there was a guy walking by the cubicle, and the walrus said to him, "Hey Jim, did you say you wanted to talk to me?" The guy stopped in his tracks, stared at him a while then said "no," and walked away.
Iced fear started to ooze out of the walrus' pores and he desperately clung onto his only signs of escape, "Well, I thought you sent me an email saying that you wanted a word with me."
The guy didn't even look back, "no." Oh shit, suck a dick walrus, you are stuck with the Goat, and the Goat has tons more shit to talk about. The people who came for the appointment were getting pissed at the walrus, because he was ignoring them, and the Goat didn't care. I kept talking. Two pissed people was a small price to pay for the sweet taste of vengeance.
Finally, the walrus had no choice but to break his outwardly friendly exterior, cut me short, and tell me to leave. It's not my fault I'm such a charming individual to talk to, and if you don't enjoy my company, then I will have no choice but to take my business elsewhere. I didn't tell him that, though. I thought it would be best to lead him on for a little bit longer. "Thanks, you've been helpful. I'm very interested, and I'll get back with you tomorrow."
Test Drive This
The next day, I bought a car at some other place. The walrus never heard from the Goat again. Decisions are made much easier when you have pompous windbags demanding sales from you. I probably should have avoided that whole situation and told him to eat my ass, but the alternative was so much more fun.
Alas, the time for walruses has now passed. Let us continue. Test-driving cars is the shit. First of all, they don't belong to you, so you can do whatever you want to them. As soon as you are out of sight of the dealership, it's all about laying down rubber, taking super tight turns, and rolling that bitch into vineyards to commit some MAD DUIs ALL DAY. Take it on the highway and try to get it to do a wheelie. Roll it over hot coals, dive it down sidewalks, across lawns, into the offices of dirtbag walruses. Whatever, it doesn't matter. The trick is to pick out a car with a shitty color, and beat the hell out of it. That way, if you really like the ride, you can just tell the dealer that the color really makes you nauseous. You see, after that first day, the Goat already knew what he wanted, but it's still fun to drive the hell out of vehicles that are not yours. I strongly recommend that you all go and test-drive a car, right now. Hell, take a friend so you can drag race two brand new cars down some deserted country road. If you are not into drag racing, just drive through and get some fast food. Park in your driveway, it doesn't matter.
Farewell
With the decision of which car to get, I was suddenly stung with the realization that I would never ever see Phoebe again. There we both were, sitting in the parking lot. The Goat was staring at a brand spanking new car and an old lemon. Good times were had in old Phoebe, but now it was time to send her to a different owner. The old mechanic might be a little pissed too, because his daughter won't have her on-and-off-again vehicle. I seriously contemplated putting that mechanic's phone number in the glove box.
Making sure that I nabbed my MST3K sticker and rubber chicken, I caressed Phoebe's steering wheel one last time.
With a slight quiver in her voice she said, "Please don't leave me, Goat."
I sat in silence for a short while, held back a tear and replied, "Whatev, beeotch; I just sold you for a thousand dollars." And with that, I left and was soon driving away in my brand spanking new Ford Fusion. I thought I would drive it into the Chevy lot and request to talk to the walrus again, just to see if he would notice my new wheels. Instead, I took Blue Fusion for a spin around the neighborhood, and tried to pick up some underage women (I only say that, because during lunch break one day, a co-worker was ogling women, but then stopped when he realized they were way underage. The Goat then told him to go over there and use this pick up line: "Hey baby, ever seen pubes before?" I just thought that should be shared).
Back to the car: I straight up refused anything red, and swiped up a blue car. Red sucks for a car color. Phoebe was red, Red Corsica was red. The Goat has had it with red cars. Red cars blow. Here I come in my tampon mobile, please pull me over, Mr. Police Officer, because red cars are all you seem to notice. Fuck the police, and fuck walruses.
--This is the Word of the Goat
P.S.
The Goat isn't one for naming cars, so if one of you chumps don't name it, I will be forced to call it Blue Fusion for the rest of eternity (or at lest until my lease is up several years down the road). So, any suggestions?
Goat Update (04-27-06):
After owning Blue Fusion for less than one week, some asshole fuckbag decides that they want to put a dent in it using their door. This fucking shit pissed me way the fuck off. First of all, some foolish mortal decided to lay their stinking mitts on one of the Goat's worldly possessions. For shame. Secondly, the Goat has owned shitty cars since he was sixteen, and not once had any of them been dinged by car doors. Oh here's a new car: I think I will smash it with the door of my red car. WHAM... there we are, that left a nice dent. Whoops, I left a little streak of my red paint job on there. The owner of this shiny new blue car won't mind.
Wrong, fuckhole. I do mind. You know what the solution to my anger is? How about this: I'm going to take a slugger to each red car in the parking lot of my workplace. All you assholes won't have to worry about using a hair dryer in the morning anymore. However, night driving will become quite difficult. Fuck.
The Goat's Take
This Week's Topic:
PHOEBE'S LAST RIDE
Whether that sassy bitch would like to admit it or not, she was on her last leg. After an extensive history of breaking down and fucking me up the ass with repair bills, the Goat has decided to cash in my chips after a particularly lengthy amount of time with no repairs. Phoebe has served me well...that is, if you consider serving me well leaving me no choice to stack up some hefty debt (broken cars can't drive you to school so you can gain an education and rule the world some day). So, I decided to kick that bitch out and get a brand spanking new car.
Someone asked, "But Goat, do you think that's wise? Did you get your money's worth out of that car?"
My retort, "Damn...a hobo would have gotten their moneys worth with that car. It was a piece of shit." Don't believe me? I had to drive around with the heat blasting full strength, or else Phoebe would overheat and scream at me. That makes for a nice and leisurely ride in the summertime. I know the oxygen sensors were shot, because that's what many mechanics told me: "You know, both of your oxygen sensors are shot."
"Can it still drive okay without them?"
"Yeah, but-"
"That's all I need to hear." And with that, I peeled away. I know damn well there's oxygen in the air. Why the fuck would I need a sensor to tell me so? Believe me...that car was ready to blow up one final time, and I didn't want to be the one to pay for it. Here is the story of the Goat's search for a new vehicle. Enjoy it, you douchebags; it might be the last thing you ever do.
Tyranny of the Walrus
If any of you have ever shopped for a car, you all know it is total bullshit, and people should just be given free cars without all that hassle of paying for it and wheeling and dealing with all those jackass salespeople. The Goatress and I have gone car shopping before, so we were already prepared for what was to come. The first place we stopped, we had an objective to go in, test drive a car, and move on to the next place to drive. After all, we had a tight schedule that day. Little did we know, the epitome of car salesman met us as soon as we so much as glanced at a new car.
This man was at least three sizes larger than the largest man ever to drink mayonnaise. He talked with the urgency of three ER doctors, and wasted no time in assuming that everyone but him was a dumb, stupid sucker. When he talked, his jowls reverberated with a rhythm so familiarly associated with Jell-o. He reminded me of a walrus, and I expected that, at any moment, he would let out a great roar, shake his body in a fit of rage, and gore us with his tusks. From that very first moment he waddled out to us, I knew we were in trouble.
We tried to tell him that we just wanted to test drive the car, but it was no use. He dove headfirst into his well-rehearsed spiel and did not allow us to interrupt and get a word in whatsoever. He wheeled deals with a fluid grace that could only be mustered by an intricately programmed, walrus-shaped robot. He would ask us a question, wait for us to half-answer, change the subject, ask another question, then not even bother letting us respond before he changed topics again. This started to piss us off, because the Goatress was on a timeline, and if she were late for class, she would have no choice but to go on the warpath; and when that happens, motherfuckers get hurt. This salesperson cared not one bit. He wasted more and more of our time with details of a sale that was quickly escaping from the Goat's interests. He kept handing papers to people to make copies for us, and squawked constantly for his assistants to do shit for him. He made phone calls to his 'friends higher up' regarding rare coupons. Now, asshole or not, I was impressed that this walrus summoned the help of angels to make this sale work, because I know for a fact there was nobody on the roof. However, before I could even contemplate what the hell that meant, he was on to the next topic. This guy would not stop talking. I think he even told us that he could pitch in a free hand job from his car-equivalent of a paralegal.
Forty or fifty fucking minutes after arrival, he finally got around to getting a key, so we could test drive this vehicle. Good thing we had a billion other places to be that day and were wasting the day in front of this abdominal sweat bucket. He told us that we could test drive it for as long as we wanted, but then started to talk in raising velocity. Once he was distracted with breathing in before another verbal assault, I punched his lights clear out and swiped the keys.
We test-drove that car all right. Test drove it right to the driveway of Goat Manor and left it there. Fuck that guy; we'll keep his car hostage while we test drive other cars. Jumping into the non-Phoebe Goat Laboratories, Inc. company vehicle (Pierre Tyrone), we went to the next place. We marched in and told them that we wanted to test drive a vehicle. The guy looked at us and said, "Okay," and dropped the keys right into my hand. Now, was that so fucking hard? I should have taken this car and drove it into the office of that asswipe walrus. Coo coo ca-choo this, motherfucker...SMASH. I'm sorry, did I run directly over your trachea?
Goat's Revenge
Seeing that the Goatress had class shortly, we decided to return all the cars that we were driving around. With ten minutes before the Goatress had to be leaving, we found ourselves sitting in front of the infernal walrus once again. His jowls were quaking at the mere inkling of a sale. He asked us how we liked our test drive, but immediately started crunching numbers as soon as we started to reply. Sure enough, we were faced with ten minutes of straight bullshitting and fathead sales person talk. His assistants were throwing him smelt to reward him of the fantastic job he was doing. He gobbled it all up mid-sentence and kept rambling on about more useless shit.
The Goatress got real pissed, told the walrus that she had to go to class, and then to marched out of the door. The walrus hardly noticed, so he kept flapping his gums at an alarming rate. The Goat here had already been pissed for quite a while, and was about to smash his face with some mighty fine steel toe action. Instead, an opportunity opened up right before my eyes, and it was just too tempting to let pass.
His paralegal came in the cubicle and announced that there was a couple that just arrived to see the walrus about picking up a car. My, my, my...guess who now has an appointment to uphold? Guess who will now be late for said appointment? That's right mister walrus, your time is up, chump. Chomp on this tasty revenge salad with a healthy side of cock. You see, it was in this walrus' nature to keep talking, and if the customer had a question, he had no choice but to answer. All of the sudden, the Goat became the most curious customer / Chatty Cathy ever to live. I can say, with no ego, that this was probably one of the best things I have ever done in my life. As soon as that paralegal made her announcement and left, the Goat started asking questions about the car, and listened patiently as the walrus spewed his foul drivel. I made it sound like I was real interested in buying a car from this whiskery mammal. After a little while, I shifted the conversation to useless chitchat. I asked him about his children, I talked about my job, about the nature of Goat Dog, the weather, the job market in Albuquerque, and even ice cream. No one will try and out-bullshit the Goat and get away with it. Not on my clock. He refused to be rude and tell me that I had to leave, not when he thought I was about to buy a car. I just kept talking, wasting his time, and making him late for anything else he had to do that day. How about them Red Sox? Ever mix bleach and ammonia? I have a friend that has pi memorized to the thirty-eighth decimal. Blah, blah, fuckity-blah.
He started to panic, but I kept talking. He looked at the clock, looked around, and tried to send me some subliminal signals that it was my time to leave the dealership. Guess who didn't bite. I kept talking. How do you like that, you bastard walrus? At one point, there was a guy walking by the cubicle, and the walrus said to him, "Hey Jim, did you say you wanted to talk to me?" The guy stopped in his tracks, stared at him a while then said "no," and walked away.
Iced fear started to ooze out of the walrus' pores and he desperately clung onto his only signs of escape, "Well, I thought you sent me an email saying that you wanted a word with me."
The guy didn't even look back, "no." Oh shit, suck a dick walrus, you are stuck with the Goat, and the Goat has tons more shit to talk about. The people who came for the appointment were getting pissed at the walrus, because he was ignoring them, and the Goat didn't care. I kept talking. Two pissed people was a small price to pay for the sweet taste of vengeance.
Finally, the walrus had no choice but to break his outwardly friendly exterior, cut me short, and tell me to leave. It's not my fault I'm such a charming individual to talk to, and if you don't enjoy my company, then I will have no choice but to take my business elsewhere. I didn't tell him that, though. I thought it would be best to lead him on for a little bit longer. "Thanks, you've been helpful. I'm very interested, and I'll get back with you tomorrow."
Test Drive This
The next day, I bought a car at some other place. The walrus never heard from the Goat again. Decisions are made much easier when you have pompous windbags demanding sales from you. I probably should have avoided that whole situation and told him to eat my ass, but the alternative was so much more fun.
Alas, the time for walruses has now passed. Let us continue. Test-driving cars is the shit. First of all, they don't belong to you, so you can do whatever you want to them. As soon as you are out of sight of the dealership, it's all about laying down rubber, taking super tight turns, and rolling that bitch into vineyards to commit some MAD DUIs ALL DAY. Take it on the highway and try to get it to do a wheelie. Roll it over hot coals, dive it down sidewalks, across lawns, into the offices of dirtbag walruses. Whatever, it doesn't matter. The trick is to pick out a car with a shitty color, and beat the hell out of it. That way, if you really like the ride, you can just tell the dealer that the color really makes you nauseous. You see, after that first day, the Goat already knew what he wanted, but it's still fun to drive the hell out of vehicles that are not yours. I strongly recommend that you all go and test-drive a car, right now. Hell, take a friend so you can drag race two brand new cars down some deserted country road. If you are not into drag racing, just drive through and get some fast food. Park in your driveway, it doesn't matter.
Farewell
With the decision of which car to get, I was suddenly stung with the realization that I would never ever see Phoebe again. There we both were, sitting in the parking lot. The Goat was staring at a brand spanking new car and an old lemon. Good times were had in old Phoebe, but now it was time to send her to a different owner. The old mechanic might be a little pissed too, because his daughter won't have her on-and-off-again vehicle. I seriously contemplated putting that mechanic's phone number in the glove box.
Making sure that I nabbed my MST3K sticker and rubber chicken, I caressed Phoebe's steering wheel one last time.
With a slight quiver in her voice she said, "Please don't leave me, Goat."
I sat in silence for a short while, held back a tear and replied, "Whatev, beeotch; I just sold you for a thousand dollars." And with that, I left and was soon driving away in my brand spanking new Ford Fusion. I thought I would drive it into the Chevy lot and request to talk to the walrus again, just to see if he would notice my new wheels. Instead, I took Blue Fusion for a spin around the neighborhood, and tried to pick up some underage women (I only say that, because during lunch break one day, a co-worker was ogling women, but then stopped when he realized they were way underage. The Goat then told him to go over there and use this pick up line: "Hey baby, ever seen pubes before?" I just thought that should be shared).
Back to the car: I straight up refused anything red, and swiped up a blue car. Red sucks for a car color. Phoebe was red, Red Corsica was red. The Goat has had it with red cars. Red cars blow. Here I come in my tampon mobile, please pull me over, Mr. Police Officer, because red cars are all you seem to notice. Fuck the police, and fuck walruses.
--This is the Word of the Goat
P.S.
The Goat isn't one for naming cars, so if one of you chumps don't name it, I will be forced to call it Blue Fusion for the rest of eternity (or at lest until my lease is up several years down the road). So, any suggestions?
Goat Update (04-27-06):
After owning Blue Fusion for less than one week, some asshole fuckbag decides that they want to put a dent in it using their door. This fucking shit pissed me way the fuck off. First of all, some foolish mortal decided to lay their stinking mitts on one of the Goat's worldly possessions. For shame. Secondly, the Goat has owned shitty cars since he was sixteen, and not once had any of them been dinged by car doors. Oh here's a new car: I think I will smash it with the door of my red car. WHAM... there we are, that left a nice dent. Whoops, I left a little streak of my red paint job on there. The owner of this shiny new blue car won't mind.
Wrong, fuckhole. I do mind. You know what the solution to my anger is? How about this: I'm going to take a slugger to each red car in the parking lot of my workplace. All you assholes won't have to worry about using a hair dryer in the morning anymore. However, night driving will become quite difficult. Fuck.