|THE GOAT ROAST BLUES (standard:humor, 830 words)|
|Author: Billy Jack Baxter||Added: Oct 19 2003||Views/Reads: 1746/1||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|It was a great party!|
THE GOAT ROAST BLUES In our small oilfield town in southeastern New Mexico, in the mid-seventies, the FOUTRH OF JULY GOAT ROAST AND BRAIN FRY was an annual event that was looked forward to by all local hippie-party-people, as well as a sprinkling of conventional straight people. Preparation for a party of that scale was time consuming and extremely costly to me, the host, but looked forward to as well, because of all the necessary partying that was associated with the planning stage of such a shindig. Obviously, the purchasing of a fine young goat to roast was a very important part of the preparation, along with the purchase of various trophies that were awarded for such events as horseshowe tossing, washer chunking, and Frisbee golf tournaments that I sponsored. The bulk of the needed beer, tequila, and various other mind-altering necessities, which were just as big a part as the events, were usually purchased with pooled money or provided by undisclosed partygoers. About a week before the party, I would purchase a goat, usually a dead one, from a Mexican gun and drug-running friend of mine who lived on the outskirts of our small town. On this particular visit to my goat supplier, he informed me, with various apologies, of his lack of dead and processed goats for sale. At which time, my faithful friend and sidekick, Dale, blurted out, We'll take that one! My Mexican buddy and I followed Dale's slender arm out to the end of his finger, which was pointing to a cute, but meaty, young goat peacefully grazing in the goat man's backyard. I reluctantly agreed. We paid the goat man, then set out on the task of catching the young goat and loading it into Dale's 72 Nova coupe. After about thirty minutes of total havoc, the goat was successfully loaded into the backseat of Dale's relatively new car. This being the goat's first experience in car travel, it proceeded to, in place of a more flagrant word, defile Dale's backseat interior. A few minutes later, we reached my house and the goat was released into my fenced in yard with no further incidents. We were very proud of ourselves, celebrating accordingly, when my wife pulled in from work. Needless to say, Nita didn't share in mine and Dale'same sense of elation after she entered the front yard and spotted the goat. Now, I say Dale's elation and mine because at the moment of purchase I vowed to myself that Dale would have to assume at least half of the foreseen consequences of this crazy escapade. In the days that followed, it wasn't long before the goat became much more than just dinner. My wife and I were extremely attached to ol' Cimarron, which was the name she attached to our upcoming Fourth of July meal. After doing some research into the proper procedure of preparing such a goat for roasting, it quickly became apparent the Ol' Cimarron was going to have to die first, or in this case, someone would have to kill him. So, the day before the gala event, several of our friends, wives included, were sitting around as we always did before such a party, getting primed, kids running around outside playing with ol' Cimarron, when I announced that I was not going to be able to kill ol' Cimarron. At this time, Dale jumped up, in his now primed condition, and shouted, I'll kill him, it's the least I can do for what he did to my backseat! His wife, Tony, agreed. Then Dale pulled his Old Timer boot knife out of his boot, which I had observed him sharpening on since the day the goat was liberated from his ruined backseat, and proceeded to catch poor ol' Cimarron. Cimarron was then led, like a condemned man to the gallows, to the abandoned well house behind my property. A rope was tossed over a bare two-by-four pine rafter and ol' Cimarron was hoisted up by his uncooperative hind legs, soft exposed throat about belly high. Dale grabbed ol' Cimarron by his little goat muzzle, took a slash at its throat, missed, and sliced his wrist clean to the bone. Immediately, Dale turned ghost-white and passed smooth out, blood spurting with every beat of his heart. Women were screaming, little kids were thinking, man, what a cool party, and ol' Cimarron, not at all happy with his current predicament, did look somewhat relieved to see Dale, knife in hand, passed out on the concrete slab. Well, Dale ended up at the emergency room of our local hospital with a wrist full of stitches, trying to explain the reason and location of his wrist wound. Ol' Cimarron went back home to the Mexican drug and gun-runner, and we had what was known from that day forward as the, ANNUAL FOURTH OF JULY HAMBURGER ROAST AND BRAIN FRY. In addition, I'm pleased to say, a high old time was had by al Tweet
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