Category Archives: Jittery Goat Store

If Milk Is All You Got, You Got Nothing

What’s wrong with this picture? The cookies to be consumed with a glass of milk should be of at least equal height or greater.

I’m letting the secret out: This blog is a real money-maker. Not the blog itself. I trick people. I write clever stuff and on the side bar there is a link to the money maker. It’s so easy to make money on the internet; I’m surprised more people aren’t doing it.

I thought about writing a really clever book that outlines how to make money by blogging. (In fact, if you use this secret method without sending me a check for $1,000 I’m taking you to court. So don’t go any further unless you write a check first.)

Here’s the secret to internet blogging riches:

1. Write clever stuff

2. On your side bar have a link to a site that sells t-shirts, cups, and bumper stickers with clever original work by you.

3. Sit back and watch the money roll in.

And the great thing about this is that you can do it from a beach in a grass hut on a Polynesian or Caribbean Island or, in my case, Boise, Idaho.

There is a warning. You have to be careful: copy write infringements. This could land you in court. And some big shot company can sue you for using something that they have licensed. When they’re done with you all you have is a grass hut in Boise, Idaho.

Yeah, this piece is dripping with sarcasm. I got pulled over by the Milk Police. I thought I was clever enough to slip one past them, but they lifted an udder and caught me on radar. I had a shirt that said, “Got Milk? Got Cookies. Let’s Party!”

I thought if I used it in a way not used by them, that would be okay. I have now gone through all my novels, short stories, and essays and removed “got milk” with “do you have in your possession product from the cow’s udder?” A bit clumsy, but at least I’m safe.

Well the “Got Milk?” people told the manufacturers of my t-shirts and bumper stickers I’m milkin’ their slogan for money. Not really; I sold nothing.

Frankly, I don’t like milk. Those milk producers make it sound like there’s nothing better than coming inside on a hot summer day and pouring a tall cool glass of milk. Balderdash! You start with beer and work your way to water and milk ain’t anywhere in between.

The only thing it has done to coffee is ruin it.

Milk is never good by itself. It has to have something to support it. The only time, if ever, it is good by itself is after all the cereal has been eaten and you slurp the left-over milk from the bowl. By then it’s loaded with the flavor of the cereal and sugar.

Milk is not good unless you add sugar, eggs, and vanilla. It then becomes ice cream when frozen.

Milk is only good when accompanied with cookies, even if they happen to be ginger bread or molasses.

The only time it has a distinctive taste is when it goes bad.

Milk can not stand on it’s own! And by the time it does, it’s cottage cheese.

A link to my anit-got milk shirt.

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Texting Ain’t The Only Thing That Should Be Outlawed

I wonder if there is a statistic for accidents caused by reading bumper stickers?

You are at a stop light, the light turns green, and the driver in front of you doesn’t move. Their head is slumped and you are about to see if the person is okay. You look more intently and see them lift a cell phone to eye level to proof read their text. You give them short blast with your horn. They push ‘send,’ look indignantly in the review mirror, and proceed like you’re a road raged, pistol packin’ crazed, red neck. (If that describes you, sorry.)

You make it out to the interstate and the person in front of you is weaving like they got a fifth of Jack Daniels tucked between their legs. You want to quickly get around them so you don’t have to witness the mayhem they are about to unleash on the Department of Transportation, State Highway Patrol, local volunteer fire department, and Jud’s Wrecking Service. As you pass you notice the driver is texting the complete works of Shakespeare; probably at the line, “To sleep, perchance to dream.”

Another distraction, to me, is those stupid-acting sign wavers. Really!

There was this guy dressed in a sombrero and poncho running up and down the curb. I thought he was an illegal who escaped from his coyote captors.

I stopped. “Get in amigo. I’ll take you to safety.”

“Dude, keep moving. You’re blocking my sign. The boss will think I’m talking to my Dad and fire me. He keeps coming by here and telling me, ‘I paid for a college education for you to wave a sign? Go, please go.”

Sign wavers are a distraction and scourge. They should be outlawed.

If you rear-end somebody is reading the bumper sticker a plausible defense? If you have a bumper sticker you’re only asking for it.

Most are funny, some are pathetic; like the Kerry/Edwards 2004 election bumper sticker. There was always something wrong with attaching patriotic bumper stickers to a car. What’s the first thing that gets hit?

The ones that proclaim their kid is an honor roll student are so self-promoting. What if that kid ends up being a drop-out and never lives up to expectations? What will their future be; get a documentary film producer pregnant, cover it up, pay her off, and go to jail? That’s what not living up to bumper sticker expectations can do for you.

I’m starting a new national campaign against bumper stickers.

With all the hoopla about texting and driving don’t you think it’s high time to outlaw sign wavers and bumper stickers too?

Here is a link to other causes worthy of crashing into the car in front of you.

http://www.zazzle.com/jitterygoat/bumperstickers

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If You Drink Light Beer You’re Probably Married To Your Cousin

For those who appreciate good beer there's Xingu, for those who don't, enjoy your fizzy water and quit saying you like beer.

Up until fifteen years ago I didn’t care all that much for beer. My son got a job at one of those stores that offered beers from micro breweries and imports.

He’d grab a couple and scoot on over to my place once a week and we’d drink it together. I don’t know if it was the quality of the beer or just being with my son, but it sure tasted good.

In fact, I started to like beer. Instead of drinking a six pack every other month I was up to a six pack a month.

Dark beers were my favorite. I really liked a beer from Brazil called Xingu. It was black and heavy. It is absolutely the best beer I’ve ever had. On special occasions, when I wanted to impress somebody, I’d have it at the house. Sometimes I even gave it as a gift.

My wife and I accepted an invitation to a gathering. It was a hog roast (a red neck bash) and we would be the only ones present with teeth. In addition to a covered dish we thought of bringing my special beer, Xingu, as a gift to the host.

This was a Bud Light drinking crowd, but my host was known for his fondness of beer so I thought that a good beer would be in order. There is something one must realize; we must not confuse ‘liking’ beer with quality or quantity. My host was assuredly a quantity guy and had the belly to prove it.

I presented it to him and he looked at it like it was cod liver oil. I begged him to take a drink. He tasted it and looked at the bottle like it was cod live oil.

He tried to pronounce the name, Xingu.

I gave him some help. “It almost like ‘shin’ and ‘goo,'” I said.

“Than why don’t they just spell it that way,” he said.

I still don’t think he’d be able to pronounce it if it was.

About an hour later I saw him mingling with his guests carrying and chugging on a Bud Light.

I spied a bottle of Xingu on a tree stump with one swallow missing. ‘What a waste of beer,’ I thought and was not tempted in the least to finish it.

I have come to find out that if you like Bud Light you’re not worthy nor would you understand anything else. You’re interested in quantity and not quality and that’s how you’ll live your entire life. If you drink light beer and not already a red neck you’re probably just a six pack away from being one.

Here is a link for those who think the world in divided into two classes; those who drink Light Beer and those who will rule.

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Fight Like A Girl Or Don’t Fight At All

The best way to avoid a bar fight is don't go to bars.

When guys, real guys, get together they talk about the fights they have been in and how they called somebody’s bluff. I’ve never had a guy talk about how he got his clock cleaned. It has to happen; right? Logic dictates that half of the guys out there are lying or keeping suspiciously quiet.

Where are all the guys who got beat-up? Do they meet at a sissy bar and sip lattes and talk about how big the dude was that decked them with one punch or how quickly they ran out of a bar.

Most fights aren’t fights. There is this telepathic male communication that says, ’if we don’t back down at the same time both of us will end up with ouies.’

I watched fights on TV from the days of Roy Rogers. The bad guy always resorted to using a chair or bottle. I’ve later found out that was the smart guys who did that. The bad guy always threw dirt in the good guys face. Once again that is something the smart guys do. The good guy uses his fists only and never uses any other object to beat his opponent to a pulp. I often wondered how many of us misdirected kids from the fifties and sixties got pummeled for following that stupid principle. Here is the best fight scene ever from the movies and explains the rules to fighting perfectly: Click this link.

Nearly every fight I’ve ever witnessed lasted one punch. Bam! It’s over. The loser walks away with a swollen cheek and black eye. The winner has a broken hand and wears a cast for six weeks.

Some fights resemble two windmills charging each other. Somebody eventually throws their shoulder out.

I’ve never seen a guy win a fight who takes a boxing stance or karate pose. That stork stance from the Karate Kid is how you look laying on the ground after being hit by a 2 X 4.

The best fight I ever saw (I can’t believe I said that) was between two girls (chick fight). They latched on the each others’ hair, scratched, slapped, punched, kicked, ripped, bit, choked, and screamed. The one left standing was the one who had the most stamina. It was like the Ali/Frazier “Thrilla in Manila” fifteen rounder condensed to two minutes.

When it comes to fighting the best advice ever given was; The sure way to keep your butt from getting beat is a fast pair of feet. If you must stand and fight; fight like a girl.

Here is my shirt to give fair warning of your intent if provoked.

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Why We Wrinkle

Sometimes it's genetics and other times it's just you. Nevertheless, Lifstyle Lift can't cure everything.

Nobody wants to look like a shriveled apple laid in the sun too long, but sometimes that’s the hand we’ve been dealt… or the cards we asked for.

You have probably seen those Lifestyle Lift commercials on TV where they take some old hag and after one laser visit and plenty of silk screening transform them into somebody thirty years younger.

By the way, Lifestyle Lift has this 71-year-old hag. She acts drunk. “My name is Linda,” she says. I can smell the gin through the TV.

That old wrinkled face is the result of genetics or just a matter of getting what you deserve.

There was this guy named Tony. He started working at the plant about a week after I did. He was five years younger than me, but looked more like he was fifteen. He walked like he was fifteen and… played like he was fifteen. A body and mind can take that for only so long before the inevitable appears.

Near the age of fifty Tony’s face began to take on the appearance of a Blood Hound on meth. He began walking like one too. The problem is that a Blood Hound has some value. By this point in Tony’s life he was all used up. The only thing Tony could sniff out was open container.

The boyish grin and quick stepping of Tony had faded into a face and life that resembled melted wax. His life was devoted to drinking, smoking, and late nights with little or no sleep. It was a heck of a ride, but suddenly it was over. It’s sort of like a roller coaster ride; when you’re in a steep decline or a fast turn the gravitational force pulls the skin tight, but when the rides over it sags a bit.

One day, when he was around 50, we took break at the same table. He had a coffee. He held his hands over his face and pulled down; thus the blood hound look.

I said, “Toney, you look like and used wash rag.”

He said, “At age fifty ya got the face ya deserve.”

I chuckled and said, “They say if you spread Preparation H on your face it reduces wrinkles.”

“It don’t work,” Tony said. “Besides it seems weird; like sticking a rectal thermometer in you mouth. It ain’t natural. One morning I woke up so hung-over I thought it was tooth paste. My tongue and lips shriveled up so bad I could hardly talk. I sounded British.”

Click this link to a shirt that is my salute to Tony.

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Stupidity By Any Other Name Is None The Stupider (The Ohio Chainsaw Idiot)

Stupidity comes in many forms, but most often in the form of a man, a chainsaw, and a pick-up truck.

When I started to work at the plant there was a huge increase in hiring. They hired a lot of guys my age. We were in our twenties.

For nearly all of us it was the best paying job we had ever had. With money comes a degree of responsibility to spend it wisely.

We all passed through phases. The first phase was that everybody had to buy a chain saw. Not just any chain saw. It had to be a man’s chain saw. It had to be a Husqvarna or a Steele. A man would never buy a Homelite.

It seemed like every week somebody in my department bought a chain saw. The talk around the break area was chain saw. Really, how many things can be said about chain saws? Nevertheless stories were told about how much wood, how big of a tree, and how fast.

The justification for buying chain saws was economics. Energy prices were spiking and many in rural communities started to heat with wood. That led into other conversations on who had the best and most efficient wood burner.

There was this guy named Larry. He was smarter than the rest. He bought the best wood burner, the best chain saw, and you must have a brand new truck to haul the wood in so he had a brand new truck.

His first weekend of cutting wood he miscalculated something; the direction of the wind, the weight distribution of the tree, or where to notch it, but anyway his truck was completely left out of his calculation. He dropped a tree right across his truck. He totaled it.

The next year he had an encore performance; he dropped another tree across his pick-up. We stated calling him “Chainsaw.”

CB radios were the next item that disposable income could be thrown at. Nearly everybody at the plant had one. It replaced chainsaws as the topic of conversation. Suddenly everybody began to talk like truckers. Everybody had a handle (user name).

Larry’s handle was… Chainsaw.

As soon as everybody got in their car or tuck at quitting time the CB chatter began immediately. It was like kids with a new toy.

Larry hopped into his truck one day and sped from the parking lot. He always liked being the first out the gate. While fine tuning his CB he failed to notice the guy in front of him had stopped because the gate had not opened yet. Larry plowed into the back of the other driver.

His truck wasn’t totaled, but I’ve paid less for trucks than what it cost to repair his.

About six months later Larry was going through the same check list, run to truck, start engine, get on CB, put in gear, accelerate, check for traffic (added six months earlier), race for gate. The gate closed. Larry panicked and accelerated more. It was like a prison break scene as he busted through the chain link gate. He went across the road and came to rest in a graveyard. Just in case you’re not counting; that’s four trucks in two years. I think he was personally responsible for a peak in new truck sales for GM.

We gave Larry a new nickname, “Ten-four.”

The following link is dedicated to Larry. “That’s a big ten-four, good buddy.”

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If You Succeed Don’t Act Surprised

Jerry Lucas was good. When he scored or duncked he didn't act like it was the first time he would do it nor would it be his last.

I recall viewing an old high school game film of famed basketball player Jerry Lucas sinking a twenty-five foot jump shot at the buzzer to win a tournament game. He was expressionless. He seemed almost embarrassed at the attention. He acted as if ‘what did you expect? I’ve made that shot hundreds of times.’

That is a far cry from athletes today. Some player dunks a ball in the middle of a game with his team up by twenty and he goes into a steroid-induced rage. They should be caged without exception or question. They act like a primeval titan that has no soul and lusts for blood, fame, and victory.

When I was a fourteen year old Pony Leaguer playing first base; I snagged a line drive over my head that I had to leap to catch. The other team sneered and said sarcastically, “Looky what I found.” Although I was surprised and wanted to parade around the infield holding the ball over my head, I didn’t. I acted like that was nothing out of the ordinary. Jerry Lucas was my role model.

A few years ago I heard a story about Cleveland Browns’ great running back Jim Brown. During pre-season a rookie asked him for some advice. Jim Brown said, “When ya score a touchdown act like it’s not your first.”

High school and college has put in a ‘no taunting’ rule. I don’t like the rule because it is sometimes left to the discretion of the referee.

A couple of seasons ago Boise State’s wide receiver Austin Pettis, somersaulted into the end zone. There was no penalty, but Pettis sat out the rest of the game. The punishment was handed out by head coach Chris Peterson.

It’s a character thing; not a rule thing. And dignity!

So here is a shirt to remind you that if you actually plan on succeeding don’t act like it is a surprise; it is the product of hard work and dedication.

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