The Goat Purchasers © Tom O'Brien

The Goat Purchasers was awarded Honorable Mention in the prestigious HumorPress competition, August-September, 2006.

Surprised and amazed I was last Saturday when goat purchasers arrived at our farm in a white stretch limousine. It had to be thirty-five feet long. As it came closer to our house and barn, I heard the clatter of loose beer bottles inside. A heavy stench filled the nearby air. Before it came to a stop beside our house, three men tumbled from a rear door. Soon there were four more men and four women trying to stand upright in our barnyard. Two showed signs of extreme exhaustion and/or gross hangovers.

Before I could welcome them, they all walked unsteadily to the small enclosure with our well-fed animals that were for sale. I wanted to follow them.

"Hey you," croaked a voice. I looked behind me and I saw a very rattled and disheveled limousine driver leaning against her vehicle. Her forehead was awash in perspiration. Any creature close to her armpits would have drowned. A cigarette dangled in each of her trembling hands. A feather clung in her gray-red hair. As I walked closer to where she was standing, a rooster crowed from inside her limousine. Every chicken for miles around knew its desires. She jammed both cigarettes into her mouth, reached inside the front door, and wrung its neck. Her colourful observations about chicken and goat purchasers will remain with me forever.

As the passengers examined the goats that were for sale, I asked whether she wished to make a purchase. She fixed me with a soul-destroying look. A brain-challenged bee circled her head.

She drew herself upwards making her four feet and eight inches tower above any birdbath.

"Goatman," she said in a low voice, "I was supposed to work a ten-hour wedding today that would have paid my overdue bank payments for the last three months. Instead I had to take on this, this … this bunch of goat buyers who first bought a live chicken from one of your neighbours and now they want one of your goats in my limousine." From that point onward, I experienced an unforgettable screaming tirade that would have bleached a stevedore. Her views about the jilting members of a bridal party were mild compared to her disdain for those present passengers who transport live chickens in her spotless limousine. After I offered condolences about any chicken poops on her dashboard, she stared at me and flicked cigarette ashes near my face.

On hearing a low snore and whistle, I opened a rear door and viewed the source. A very inebriated man lay face-up on the red broadloom between the plush white leather seats. Big bubbles grew and burst on his lips. Without a word, she reached inside and grabbed a fistful of his hair. Then, and without a peep, 'The Body' landed on our driveway.

After she kicked sand and gravel near his face, she pulled at my ear lobe and promised much grief if a goat ever got near her vehicle. I did not question her request.

The goat purchasers shook their heads as they walked towards us. They were upset that none of the goats had horns. One of the purchasers wanted my champion 250 pound buck.

Before I could tell them that the breeding buck was not for sale, the driver approached them on a full sprint and told them where to "put it."

One of their members, a heavyset woman with a very concerned look on her face, approached me and said, "Might you have a small cow for sale." I walked away from her believing that the limousine driver would have strangled me if I appeared in cow selling mode.

Another member, a young man in his late twenties with bloodshot eyes, asked why his friend was "splawled … hic" on the driveway. "Shut up and get in the limousine, NOW," snapped the driver. As the inquisitor fell down beside the rear door, she blew smoke rings while three women placed 'The Body' in the trunk.