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Musings from Moyieboy ... |
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The curse Of Lippy Goatenstein |
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February 20, 2017 |
By Ken Carpenter
My tendency to adopt strange habits without even
knowing it has become legendary. A few years ago
I was out back paying some attention to my two
Goatie Boys.
A few times a day I go out and hang around with
them, giving them bites of whatever treat I have
chosen for them. They jockey for position and
furiously lip the goods up out of my hand.
I have been doing this since we got them in
2009.
On the day that will live in infamy, I was
holding out two handfuls of goodies and they
were lipping feverishly in an attempt to finish
what was offered so they could then steal their
brother’s goods.
With a sudden attack of shivery dismay, I
realized that the goats were not the only ones
doing some lipping.
My lips were distorting
right along with them, copying their motion in a
most unseemly manner.
I quit it at once, peering guiltily over both
shoulders to see if there were any witnesses.
There weren’t, but I was besieged by an
unpleasant thought that would not go away.
Had I been doing this for seven years without
knowing it?
I was determined to defeat this corrupt habit
immediately. Steeling myself to be a better man,
I clamped my traitorous lips together as if I
was engulfed in a storm of tongue eating wasps.
For the next two weeks I adopted a tight-lipped,
Clint Eastwood-like demeanor every time I got
close to the goats. No lipping for me, no siree,
not even a little pooch of a lower lip that was
throbbing from the strain of clenching.
Slowly the stress ebbed away, and then it
happened again when I was giving them bites of
an apple. I couldn’t control it, didn’t feel it
sneaking up on me until the unbidden lipping
took over. My spirits sunk, this was like
fighting an addiction!
A week later it happened again.
“Woe is me!” I thought, “Am I turning into Lippy
Goatenstein?”
I made the mistake of telling my youngest son
Heath about my soul-wrenching dilemma. It was
like telling Donald Trump there were a dozen TV
cameras around the corner.
Heath jumped on the goat lip train and refused
to even think of any other subject until he had
voiced and questioned every aspect that could
even remotely be connected to my alleged goat
lips.
“I honestly think that your lips are growing
Dad, they should be actual goat size in a month
or so.”
“Wow, I bet you could do a TV commercial for
Goat Lip Balm.”
“Gee Dad, maybe there’s a Goat Lips Anonymous in
town.”
The latest idea spawned a demeaning conversation
concerning the likely clientele who would attend
a GLA meeting. Somehow, his descriptions of my
alleged hobo-like companions did not drop their
status compared with me, the original Mr. Lippy.
At least he didn’t accuse me of having unnatural
relations with the goats. I realized that had
our positions been reversed, and he was the
lipper in question, I could never have refrained
from making some crass remark about such a
thing.
Well, you know what crass rhymes with.
I think I have thought, said and heard quite
enough about my affliction. In closing, I’m
pretty sure I have thought of the perfect
solution to this perplexing situation.
Red wax lips are just what I need!
I’m not sure what the neighbors will think, but
my mental health is the top priority in the
backyard right now.
Oh hell, the goats are lipping at me right now.
I better rush to town and get those wax lips. I
think I will look to see if there is such a
thing as Goat Lip Balm, too.
You never know when some might come in handy. |
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