I have a counter on my blog; supposedly it logs how many people visit me. I don't pay much attention to it - like every other passing nuance of mine, I forget the password 2 days after I sign up, and it becomes a thorn in my side. In addition to counting the people silly enough to come here willingly, it also counts the people who are lured here through the miraculous search engine called Google. Entrapment: not just for prostitutes anymore.
The vast majority of search hits that bring people to Kill the Goat is for goat sex. Oy. Way back in the dark ages of October 2004, if I had known what I was getting myself into by naming my blog after a goat, I may have rethunk it. But probably not. Actually, in the very early days, my blog went by another name (and no, it did not smell as sweet). This name is far too embarrassing to list here. If anyone remembers it, please take it to your grave.
Anyhoo, I have recently regandered the whole search terms portion of my site counter, and have become at least mildly entertained. Almost mediumly entertained, you might say. But at the same time, I feel vaguely guilty. I mean, dozens of people come here looking for goat sex, and is there any goat sex on offer? Nope. No ram sex, no kid sex, no nanny goat sex (although popular consensus states that my grandmother (Nanny) is sexy, and proof of her sex life, as gross as that strikes me, is proved by the very fact that I exist). No billy goat sex, no sex involving the generous application of goat cheese, no hand jobs with kid gloves (or any gloves for that matter, if you happen to be curious that way), very little cashmere copulation...and not even any Capricorns going at it. Well, not yet, anyway. Who knows what the future may hold?
But the point is...wait, what was my point? Ah yes. Goat sex. The point is, you needn't have sex with a goat. By the sounds of it, goats have sex a lot like people, and finding a nice girl to fuck may be a teensy bit harder, but it will save you from, well, from having sex with a goat. She-goats get horny roughly every 3 weeks. She gets all gussied up, flags her tail and is vocal. He-goats then become obsessed with the ladies. They fight each other, and they emit a "musky" smell which they the rub on the females. Sound familiar? Yeah, I thought so. Sounds like any given Tuesday night at the local pub, particularly when someone puts a quarter in the jukebox and plays Mustang Sally.
Advice to goat sex seekers: pass.
To the person who came here wondering if going commando would make his penis bigger: dude. Dude! According to the Vietnam vets who popularized this term, going commando has many uses: comfort, mobility of the genitalia, increased ventilation, reduced moisture, and of course, it frees up all kinds time when you normally would have bought the underwear, worn the underwear, washed the underwear, etc. In fact, by freeballing, you will now have so much more time on your hands, you'll be able to put it to good use, such as wooing women instead of goats.
To whomever landed here searching for 'babysitter's bane', look no further. I will tell you a secret...lean in close...I'll whisper in your ear. YOU ARE A MORON! The bane of babysitters - it's the babies! I'm betting you're the same person who still can't figure out what the movie Snakes on a Plane can possibly be about. Sheesh. The babies are what makes babysitting a nuisance. If you got paid just for the sitting part, fine (but at $5 an hour, you'd still be getting ripped off). But sitting for babies? Ludicrous. And sitting on babies? Even worse. First of all, their little arms and legs are too weak to support a full grown person sitting on them. They don't even try. Second of all, they wiggle incessantly and they complain A LOT. So unless your idea of a good sit involves urination (not your own) and a literal pain in the butt, I'd skip the babysitting altogether.
To the Googler who searched for the difference between slacks and pants: pants are the 2-legged piece of clothing you wear on your lower body. Slacks are the 2-legged piece of clothing your grandmother wears on her lower body.
To the savvy shopper wondering the Toronto price of large bottle of perrier water 750 ml: $1.47.
To the person searching for a poem about a mother-daughter falling out:
It's called a Jolly Jumper
But the jumping is only Jolly
When properly installed
When the daughter fell out,
Her delighted giggles
Were soon replaced by fat, plentiful tears
And the new mother,
Having scarred her child for the first time, but not the last
Could only say hush, not for the first time, nor for the last
To the devoted archeologist wondering about what killed the gay dinosaurs: what a wonderful question! I wondered when someone would ask me about this. Paleontologists are always spouting crackpot theories of their extinction, involving improbable asteroids and ice ages that make cute movies but unsatisfactory answers. Today, the truth is revealed, but only because a brave dinosaur named Barney came out of the closet, singing and dancing like the loud and proud homosexual dinosaur he is. Yes, dinosaurs were gay (and I don't just mean happy). But the sad truth is, gay populations have a very hard time propagating their species. This of course was way back before in vitro, or adoption, or even Will & Grace. So at the end of their lives, the gay dinosaurs rested beside their lovers, a glass of good wine on hand, and a Barbara Streisand record playing softly in the background, and they vacated the earth in favour of a new species called humans who stupidly spend time digging up old dinosaur bones and denying the rights of same sex couples, because, you know, if a man can marry another man, then what's next? A goat?
Moral of the story: 99.99% of people who have been sexually active with a goat are "straight".
Now THESE are the people who should not be permitted to mess with our gene pool.