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THE GOAT ROAST BLUES (standard:humor, 830 words)
Author: Billy Jack BaxterAdded: Oct 19 2003Views/Reads: 2163/1Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
It was a great party!


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, 
pleased to say, a high old time was had by al 


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