Three Magic Oats
My mom, in a fit of rage, sent me to sell our family goat today.
She (my mom) keeps an herb garden in the backyard full of all manor of smells, tastes and colors. It's been there for several years and has, as a result, flourished into a varitable cornocopia of food-enhancing plant life. The goat, which we had unanymously voted to name Fargus, had been tied up in the backyard for a little over a week due to the incident in the basement. I haven't the time nor the energy to go into the details of the event, but I will say that it involved an unusually large sack of undercooked meatballs. After gnawing through the rope that quarantined it to the back corner of the yard, it meandered its way toward the garden.
No one was home during this time so we only found the aftermath of its herb binge. The only survivor of the ordeal was the parsley. One would expect to be comforted that something had persevered the hunger of the now ill-fated quadraped but upon its creation, parsley was predestined to be a mere garnish. So while we now at least possessed something to add to the aesthetic of a meal, our taste buds mourned a great loss.
My mother held her calm as the neighbor's watched, wondering what would become of the spiteful Fargus that now stood among trampled and half eaten plants (except the parsley). My mom knew the goat had done this for revenge; to get back at those that had punished it. She knew because she could smell the cumin on its breath. And we had known since we acquired Fargus that he would shy away from even the sight of it. So to now see him standing in it and to even have eaten it spoke of the audacity with which he approached this attrociously vengeful act.
But as soon as we were back in the house, she let loose. I have never seen such anger fly out of her as I did then. I imagine steam would have come rushing out of her ears had she filled up with water a good hour before hand. So, as I said before, she immediately made plans for me to sell Fargus.
It was difficult to find even a prospective buyer, given the goat's now tainted history. The entire day brought me nothing but a variety of ways to use up energy. As the sun began to set, I was growing weary. And when you're tired, you'll take almost any offer to get rid of the burden you're carrying around. Including three magic oats.
That's right. Three magic oats.
I readily agreed as it was the best offer I had heard all day. Word about the goat's taste for revenge had gotten around quickly and no one was biting. So at this point, as unlikely as it was, three magic oats sounded pretty good. A few ounces in my pocket compared to a couple hundred stubborn pounds was no contest. I gave up the goat, took the oats and headed home.
Before commending me on my earnings (if that is what you feel inclined to do), there is something you should know. My mother was not happy about it at all. But you should also know something about magic oats.
They're quite different from beans in that they do not grow up but sideways. And so, rather than waking up to a bean stalk reaching through the clouds, you'll awaken in the morning to an oat mound several miles long (if your angry mother throws them out the window the night before) which merely causes flight delays, mangles with the traffic flow, relocates grazing cows to back yards where they are not welcome, and angers that one pedestrian who will inevitably be on his way to pick up a gallon of milk.
The latter has only himself to blame, however, as he was too lazy to get it the night before, not wanting to interupt his favorite television show. And so his anger is merely misdirected. But I suppose better at that mound than at an unsuspecting person in the wrong place at the wrong time.
If your mother does not throw them out the window the night before, you'll find those three oats exactly as they were before you fell asleep and wonder if they're really magic at all. And knowing what you are thinking, the oats will be insulted and disappear completely. They will thus show you that they are, indeed, magic but also deprive you of any further show of it.
My mother, as I have mentioned several times, was angry. And without a second thought, she tossed those oats out the kitchen window. That was a few hours ago. The oats, without a doubt, are working in the soil beneath. We'll awaken in the morning to a mound of magical wonder and inconvenience.
Fun.
She (my mom) keeps an herb garden in the backyard full of all manor of smells, tastes and colors. It's been there for several years and has, as a result, flourished into a varitable cornocopia of food-enhancing plant life. The goat, which we had unanymously voted to name Fargus, had been tied up in the backyard for a little over a week due to the incident in the basement. I haven't the time nor the energy to go into the details of the event, but I will say that it involved an unusually large sack of undercooked meatballs. After gnawing through the rope that quarantined it to the back corner of the yard, it meandered its way toward the garden.
No one was home during this time so we only found the aftermath of its herb binge. The only survivor of the ordeal was the parsley. One would expect to be comforted that something had persevered the hunger of the now ill-fated quadraped but upon its creation, parsley was predestined to be a mere garnish. So while we now at least possessed something to add to the aesthetic of a meal, our taste buds mourned a great loss.
My mother held her calm as the neighbor's watched, wondering what would become of the spiteful Fargus that now stood among trampled and half eaten plants (except the parsley). My mom knew the goat had done this for revenge; to get back at those that had punished it. She knew because she could smell the cumin on its breath. And we had known since we acquired Fargus that he would shy away from even the sight of it. So to now see him standing in it and to even have eaten it spoke of the audacity with which he approached this attrociously vengeful act.
But as soon as we were back in the house, she let loose. I have never seen such anger fly out of her as I did then. I imagine steam would have come rushing out of her ears had she filled up with water a good hour before hand. So, as I said before, she immediately made plans for me to sell Fargus.
It was difficult to find even a prospective buyer, given the goat's now tainted history. The entire day brought me nothing but a variety of ways to use up energy. As the sun began to set, I was growing weary. And when you're tired, you'll take almost any offer to get rid of the burden you're carrying around. Including three magic oats.
That's right. Three magic oats.
I readily agreed as it was the best offer I had heard all day. Word about the goat's taste for revenge had gotten around quickly and no one was biting. So at this point, as unlikely as it was, three magic oats sounded pretty good. A few ounces in my pocket compared to a couple hundred stubborn pounds was no contest. I gave up the goat, took the oats and headed home.
Before commending me on my earnings (if that is what you feel inclined to do), there is something you should know. My mother was not happy about it at all. But you should also know something about magic oats.
They're quite different from beans in that they do not grow up but sideways. And so, rather than waking up to a bean stalk reaching through the clouds, you'll awaken in the morning to an oat mound several miles long (if your angry mother throws them out the window the night before) which merely causes flight delays, mangles with the traffic flow, relocates grazing cows to back yards where they are not welcome, and angers that one pedestrian who will inevitably be on his way to pick up a gallon of milk.
The latter has only himself to blame, however, as he was too lazy to get it the night before, not wanting to interupt his favorite television show. And so his anger is merely misdirected. But I suppose better at that mound than at an unsuspecting person in the wrong place at the wrong time.
If your mother does not throw them out the window the night before, you'll find those three oats exactly as they were before you fell asleep and wonder if they're really magic at all. And knowing what you are thinking, the oats will be insulted and disappear completely. They will thus show you that they are, indeed, magic but also deprive you of any further show of it.
My mother, as I have mentioned several times, was angry. And without a second thought, she tossed those oats out the kitchen window. That was a few hours ago. The oats, without a doubt, are working in the soil beneath. We'll awaken in the morning to a mound of magical wonder and inconvenience.
Fun.
posted by Still Daddy at 8:38 PM
4 Comments:
Excellent. ^_^
I LOVE this!!
Sweet! You write so well my friend and I always enjoy reading your latest =)
Very random and well done, dear boy, very random and well done.
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