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If I Had Me a Pair of Goats, I'd Never Have to Cut My Goddamn Lawn

Guest editorial by Jake Mannheim, homeowner

I've been cutting my own grass for over forty years, and frankly? I'm pretty sick of pushing that fucking lawnmower around day after day, week after week, when I could be sitting on the patio and sipping an icy-cold brewski, you dig?

Life is passing me by, pal, and it's about time the Jake-O-Nator (that's my nickname over at Dewey's Bar) did some real living.

I figure if I had a pair of hungry-munching goats, I'd never have to cut this goddamn lawn again.

I know what you're thinking: "Jake, you live in the city, for Gosh sakes. You can't keep a goat in the city!"

But I've been working on that part. I figure as long as I keep their little goat-horns filed down, people will just assume they're just a couple of long-legged terriers or something, especially after I get their vocal cords cut, and they won't be baa-ing or bleating or whatever goats usually say, at least without severed goat-throat tendons and shit.

Get a-chomping, you little goat bastards!

And I'm not going to name them something gay like "Billy" or "Clover" or "Frappaccino" or some other butt-piratey name. No sir - my goats are going to have ballsy names, like "Lothar" or "Tsunami" or "Buster Cherry," names that will stand up like a horny sixteen-year-old eating fistfuls of Viagra, you dig?

I got to think that two weeks of starving the little goat-fuckers out to be enough to make my turf look mighty tasty, and after that the goats will take to the lawn like aquarium fish take to sewer water, you feel me?

Then I'll have my whole summer to get drunk, download porn, and generally live like a man's supposed to live: relaxed and grass free. And with a couple of horn-less goats to roast come Thanksgiving.


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