Horny Makeup Goat

The goat looked me in the eye.
I hoped I didn’t have any dew
in my hair. What scares me,
however—what continuously gets
my goat, what still occasionally
makes me feel weird about sex—
is how easy it is to perform
it as a goat. And of course by goat,
I mean buck-toothed lama
that got worked over by a
Sharpie and has weird shit in its
ears. Horny makeup gets
my goat: Orgasm, Super Orgasm, Sex
Appeal, and DEEP THROAT! Come
on now I know that I am the coolest person
on the planet (its true. My mom said so.)
but I have zero interest in sounding like
one of those Atlantic City HBO
documentary hookers when I
am at the makeup boutique.
Kind of off topic but do you know
what really gets my goat? When people
throw themselves in front of trains. Also
when people drop their nasty cigarette
butts on the ground, like they are special.
Disgusting. Already I have the sore boobs
and fatigue. Blah. And if my pregnant
sister-in-law’s boyfriend shows his
motherfucking face in this house again
there’s going to be a problem. You know
what really gets my goat? Chupacabras.
Those chupacabras really get on my tits,
like Uncapitalized third grade grammar.
You wanna know what chaps my
hide? What gripes my bottom?
What gets my panties all in a bunch?
What really gets my goat
is this notion that English and Maltese
are both “our national languages.”
Excel gets my goat sometimes
Das bringt mich in Zorn.
George Clooney gets my goat,
and the quota system, and
when certain games do not
let you get the complete story
without amping up the difficulty.
Fugly shoes get my goat. Some parents
worry about teen pregnancy. I worry
about my daughter wearing sandals
that look like some sort of bedazzled
fiesta unicorn excrement. Okay,
this really gets my goat. In fact
it gets my goat, chews it up,
swallows it and then regurgitates
it, semi-digested. Now
I want my goat back.
I hope I don’t
have any dew in my hair.

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