Behind my childhood home was a wonderful house that I recall fondly as a combination Hobbit Hole and English mansion. They had goats, and their chickens laid pastel-colored eggs. Pure magic. And we still drive by there, because the same kindly folks live there, and they have a sign that invites the public to feed and pet their goats. Which we do.
For weeks, we've watched this extremely bloated goat drag her swollen milkbag around the pasture with an air of placid acceptance. And finally, she is rewarded with two capricious little monkeygoats that will drive her insane and butt her in the udder.
I FEEL YOUR PAIN, SISTER.
And speaking of capricious little dudes, I still don't really understand this image.
I almost want to have a caption contest for that one.
And lastly, I present the Unruly Helpmeet version of a Successories poster.
That's a pretty disjointed post, even for me, but it's Dr. Krog's fault. While I've been attempting to blog, he gave me a play-by-play of the Giant Death Scene of the original Transformers movie, and then he hit PLAY on season 2 of Reno 911 and rolled over to go to sleep.
I'm lucky I'm still writing in complete sentences, actually.
Isn't that. Part of my job is to. Only for sea turtles. Meh?