by Ted Bassingthwaighte
What gets my goat is my lack of tolerance for the ignorant, bigoted and misogynistic. I know that US Senate Republican and Tea Party acolyte Todd Akin said recently‘ . . . in instances of legitimate rape women’s bodies (can) somehow block an unwanted pregnancy.’
What gets my goat is how overweight I am. I know how heavy I am. My complaining leather belt tells me so. Mirrors are for the vain. Mirrors are a spiteful retort to the humble and low self-esteemed.
What gets my goat is how bad I want that beautiful strawberry glazed doughnut sitting there with its pursed lips tempting me. I know it will clog my arteries and aggravate a miscreant flake of sclerotic artery wall to break free and not so gently backstroke its way to my brain.
What gets my goat is how clever everyone else is but me. Trying is for fools. I know that there is nothing wrong with ordinariness.
What gets my goat is all the dead people I’ve met. They weren’t there to greet me. There were never any thanks for a job well done. I know we owe each other nothing in the end.
What gets my goat is how funny it is when people fall flat on their arse and others laugh until their sides split. I know that laughing at someone else’s embarrassment is surely the harshest rebuttal of our humanity towards each other.
What gets my goat is the time. Watching the clock is akin to waiting for the Grim Reaper. Death is coming. I know that. So why wonder of the moment if all you are doing is bringing that moment closer.
What gets my goat is always having to empty the dishwasher. My relationship with the machine that usurped my usefulness in the kitchen is, I know, vexatious and disagreeable, and for good reason.
What gets my goat is the 400 word limit. I know how to count. Like a mesmerising rhymester no-one will notice the cinch of my scribbling even it is was momentous.
What gets my goat is that the cat leaves his fur on everything he touches. That is not to say if I could wear his skin I know I would gladly swap mine for his.
What gets my goat is my inability to reduce a creamy sauce. Don’t nag me, wife, I know how to cook. I like it done this way. Every night in bed I pretend to like the way your dead fish cold feet anesthetize mine.
And most of all what gets my goat is that I spend too much time alone, upstairs on the laptop doing God knows what . . . I don’t know what I am doing either but I guarantee that I am doing it very well.