The Goat’s Take
This Week's Topic:
BUSINESS TRAVEL
Fuck off, bitches. Here comes the Goat with a much needed update for your asses. Speaking of asses, the Goat is conveniently located in the asshole of the Earth's asshole, Festus, Missouri. And if this is the asshole, then the city in which I take ten minutes to drive to every day is whatever the hell fell out of that asshole.
That's right, the Goat is on a business trip. I got on an airplane Monday, all by my lonesome (and that's only because the cunts in charge of booking my flight didn't know what the hell they were doing, and made sure that I arrived well over an hour before the person who would be showing me the way to the hotel). Fuck that, the Goat didn't want to wait around, so I left the airport and tore ass all around St. Louis trying to find wherever the fuck Festus was.
Bottom line, I found it in record time, settled down, and played gameboy on Dowville's dollar. Take that, travel pay. Speaking of travel pay. I get paid to sit on my ass and do pittly-ass tests for researchers. Twelve hour shifts anyone? Hell no, I put in at least twelve and a half hours in one day. That's how the Goat fucks shit up. And what do I do when I get "home" to my hotel? How about a swim? NOPE, it looks like the pool is broken, better take a bath right? Fuck no, I like my herpes-less genitalia just the way they are. Well, how about cruising the town to see what else I can do? NOPE, Festus is nothing like its name suggests. There is nothing festive about Festus; that is unless you like driving on crazy-as-fuck highways labeled "A" or "Z", or perhaps you like Bob Evans? Oh, hey, there is a Wal-Mart (sign me the fuck up for the Festus fan club). So, it leaves me no choice but to spend my daily four hours of free time drinking my favorite type of white wine, Popov. The Goat has been here since Monday, got situated into a routine on Tuesday (a routine being drinking every night in my underwear while watching endless episodes of X-Play), and already I have busted into my second fifth of delicious ethanol just tonight. The Goat is planning to experience complete liver failure by the end of next week.
So yeah, there it is. Ten straight days of twelve hour shifts. If you have ever wondered what it is like to suck on huge donkey balls, just try walking in my shoes. Oh yeah, did I mention I have some kind of throat virus that is making me feel like shit? Well, I do, and it is only making those donkey testicles that much larger.
However, the pros of those whole business travel thing is the hella bankroll they give me for food alone. Free money is awesome. I eat the hell out of everything in sight. So, on top of that liver failure, I’m banking on some sort of fatty diabietes, too. Two chocolate cakes for dessert? Dowville says you better hook me up, bitch. While you are at it, you might as well get a funnel, or grab my ankles or something, because that keg of Pabst isn't going to drink itself. I eat constantly. Steak, booze, more steak, yummy snack crackers, and mutton. Whatever the fuck I want. Who the fuck is going to tell me otherwise?
How about waking up at three-thirty in the morning every day? Bad-Fucking-Ass. I'll tell you what. Drinking vodka the night before doesn't make that particular task that much easier. But what the fuck do I care, Festus is the party city of the world. Drinking alone in a hotel room is probably the coolest thing anyone has ever done in this city, besides commuting, eating at Bob Evans (that bastard), or shopping at Wal-Mart.
Speaking of shopping at Wal-Mart, I was walking around, scoping out the booze/cough drop situation, when I stumbled upon a huge shelf full of Nintendo Wiis. SWIPE. The Goat picked one of those bitches up super quick. Now, if only there was a way to charge that to Dowville, I'd be all set. But no, instead, I shall mail it to the Goatress (as it is hers by birthright), and send her ass the bill.
Rented cars are the shit. The Goat has possession of a beat up shit heap Saturn. My current goal is to put that bitch sideways in a house, Billy Joel style. What is it about a car that you have no ownership over (but fully insured) that makes you drive like an asshole? I gun the engine all the time, take sharp corners, squak the tires, and pretty much do everything but light it on fire. What about gas? Charge the shit out of the Dowville fund, and that takes care of any gas problems. Uptown Girls, SMASH.
What's the moral of the story? Well, if you are a freeloader, you would love the fuck out of traveling for business. That, and wanking it to the weather channel really isn't as much fun as people make it out to be.
--This is the Word of the Goat
BUSINESS TRAVEL
Fuck off, bitches. Here comes the Goat with a much needed update for your asses. Speaking of asses, the Goat is conveniently located in the asshole of the Earth's asshole, Festus, Missouri. And if this is the asshole, then the city in which I take ten minutes to drive to every day is whatever the hell fell out of that asshole.
That's right, the Goat is on a business trip. I got on an airplane Monday, all by my lonesome (and that's only because the cunts in charge of booking my flight didn't know what the hell they were doing, and made sure that I arrived well over an hour before the person who would be showing me the way to the hotel). Fuck that, the Goat didn't want to wait around, so I left the airport and tore ass all around St. Louis trying to find wherever the fuck Festus was.
Bottom line, I found it in record time, settled down, and played gameboy on Dowville's dollar. Take that, travel pay. Speaking of travel pay. I get paid to sit on my ass and do pittly-ass tests for researchers. Twelve hour shifts anyone? Hell no, I put in at least twelve and a half hours in one day. That's how the Goat fucks shit up. And what do I do when I get "home" to my hotel? How about a swim? NOPE, it looks like the pool is broken, better take a bath right? Fuck no, I like my herpes-less genitalia just the way they are. Well, how about cruising the town to see what else I can do? NOPE, Festus is nothing like its name suggests. There is nothing festive about Festus; that is unless you like driving on crazy-as-fuck highways labeled "A" or "Z", or perhaps you like Bob Evans? Oh, hey, there is a Wal-Mart (sign me the fuck up for the Festus fan club). So, it leaves me no choice but to spend my daily four hours of free time drinking my favorite type of white wine, Popov. The Goat has been here since Monday, got situated into a routine on Tuesday (a routine being drinking every night in my underwear while watching endless episodes of X-Play), and already I have busted into my second fifth of delicious ethanol just tonight. The Goat is planning to experience complete liver failure by the end of next week.
So yeah, there it is. Ten straight days of twelve hour shifts. If you have ever wondered what it is like to suck on huge donkey balls, just try walking in my shoes. Oh yeah, did I mention I have some kind of throat virus that is making me feel like shit? Well, I do, and it is only making those donkey testicles that much larger.
However, the pros of those whole business travel thing is the hella bankroll they give me for food alone. Free money is awesome. I eat the hell out of everything in sight. So, on top of that liver failure, I’m banking on some sort of fatty diabietes, too. Two chocolate cakes for dessert? Dowville says you better hook me up, bitch. While you are at it, you might as well get a funnel, or grab my ankles or something, because that keg of Pabst isn't going to drink itself. I eat constantly. Steak, booze, more steak, yummy snack crackers, and mutton. Whatever the fuck I want. Who the fuck is going to tell me otherwise?
How about waking up at three-thirty in the morning every day? Bad-Fucking-Ass. I'll tell you what. Drinking vodka the night before doesn't make that particular task that much easier. But what the fuck do I care, Festus is the party city of the world. Drinking alone in a hotel room is probably the coolest thing anyone has ever done in this city, besides commuting, eating at Bob Evans (that bastard), or shopping at Wal-Mart.
Speaking of shopping at Wal-Mart, I was walking around, scoping out the booze/cough drop situation, when I stumbled upon a huge shelf full of Nintendo Wiis. SWIPE. The Goat picked one of those bitches up super quick. Now, if only there was a way to charge that to Dowville, I'd be all set. But no, instead, I shall mail it to the Goatress (as it is hers by birthright), and send her ass the bill.
Rented cars are the shit. The Goat has possession of a beat up shit heap Saturn. My current goal is to put that bitch sideways in a house, Billy Joel style. What is it about a car that you have no ownership over (but fully insured) that makes you drive like an asshole? I gun the engine all the time, take sharp corners, squak the tires, and pretty much do everything but light it on fire. What about gas? Charge the shit out of the Dowville fund, and that takes care of any gas problems. Uptown Girls, SMASH.
What's the moral of the story? Well, if you are a freeloader, you would love the fuck out of traveling for business. That, and wanking it to the weather channel really isn't as much fun as people make it out to be.
--This is the Word of the Goat