Never Trust a Goat by Tracy Farr
My rating: 3/5 cats
dear goodreaders:
it has come to my attention that there are over one million books being offered on NOOK for free. FOR FREE! ONE MILLION!
and keeping in mind the success of self-published/fanfic masterpieces like Fifty Shades of Grey, Angelfall, and Wool, i have taken it upon myself to find the Next Big Thing amongst these titles.
therefore, i will be reading as many of these as i can, to uncover the hidden gems, and passing along my findings to you. yes, you!!
will they all be awesome?
unlikely.
am i going to pick most of them just because their covers or titles make me laugh?
very likely, indeed.
this is the second book in the project.
here’s a little secret—i haven’t actually read the synopses of any of these free nook books i have chosen for this project—i just downloaded them based on what the cover looked like, or what the title was. with this one, i loved the message of the title, because goats are frightening, and you know they are up to no good with their devil-eyes and voracious appetites. which belief the cover totally reaffirms—you can tell that goat is plotting something. and i was really really hoping this one wasn’t erotica, like 99% of the freebies are. and—phew, it wasn’t.
but it also wasn’t a manifesto about the evil of goats. it is a collection of newspaper columns by this one guy in this small town in texas. and as such, it is pretty much what you would expect in terms of its content and writing style.
he seems like a decent guy—he drives a school bus, owns goats, loves nascar and banjos and rawhide, and comes across as a folksy guy who would corner you in the supermarket and start jawin’, talking your ear off while your ice cream melts. which is actually one of his columns. but he’s also got smalltown values and weird gender-beliefs that are a little old-fashioned and possibly offensive, if antiquated gender roles offend you.
the lead-off piece is the strongest, which is a smart move. it is the one about goats.
here are some excerpts:
Goats are noisy when they’re hungry, and they’re always hungry. Their cries sound like the cries of children in pain—and the goats know it. Don’t go running outside to see what’s causing them agony. It’s a trap. And they know how to build excellent traps.
also:
Never turn your back on a goat. They have sharp horns. You may consider a simple impaling as mere playfulness, but I guarantee they mean to draw blood—lots of it. They don’t want you towering over them. They want you on the ground, writhing in agony, your life’s blood pouring out of gaping wounds. As you look up at them, you’ll notice their teeth are bigger than you thought. And why are they so big? “The better to eat you with, my dear.”
and:
Goats don’t like standing out in the rain. They look so sad if they have to. So, you go to Lowe’s, buy some materials, draw up some plans and build them a goat shed. The goats love it and stand under it every time it rains, which gives you a wonderful sense of accomplishment. When it’s not raining, and the goats get bored of eating grass, they start eating the shed until it falls down. Goats don’t have a grateful bone in their bodies.
but then:
Goats are sneaky. Don’t trust them. They’ll look you right in the eye as if to say, “You’re my best friend,” but when you turn your back, they’ll headbutt you and start eating your new khaki pants. Sounds like people I know, but that’s a different story.
and that’s where it starts to niggle at me. because he obviously doesn’t know people who will literally eat his pants. and obviously he is using it to mean that he knows people who will stab you in the back once it is turned, but then shouldn’t he have used this after the horn bit? the tone here gets under my skin. it is a forced-clever that isn’t clever—a joke without a punchline. but whatever, i can’t really be overly critical of this, considering. but turns of phrase like this one will pepper the rest of the work, and bother me to no end.
the next one is about fiddle players, and how listening to bad fiddle players puts things in context, or something, and annoys me both with the odd capitalization and the phrase itself “Biker Babe.” also “Rap Music.” what’s with the capitals, dude?
also, his weird hangup about oprah:
There are not many things worse than listening to a beginner fiddle player. Someone learning to play bagpipes comes to mind, as well as stepping in cat vomit in the middle of the night, Macaroni and Cheese pizza, and Oprah. But after that, I’m hard-pressed to think of anything else.
correction to you, sir: mac and cheese pizza sounds divine. he will later go on to extol stuffed crust barbecue pizza, though, so at least he likes some things that are good. as far as oprah goes, she seems like a generally positive person and it seems unkind to liken her existence to stepping in cat vomit. just sayin’.
his next essay-thingie is about soup. it is a piece about the humble delight of soup and that even jet-setting millionaires grew up eating good wholesome soup, no matter how they have since “taken a wrong turn somewhere along the way” and strayed into the world of “new things like sushi and crab-stuffed artichoke hearts.” which, i guess are bad? and while i can appreciate his bluff salt-of-the-earth tone, his metaphor stretches itself a bit thin.
and his folksy ending makes me cringe a bit:
Wagoner, Nardelli and Mulally may have more money than me, but I’ve got a large bubbling pot of New England Clam Chowder sitting on the stove top not just waiting to be served, but begging to be served. And by my calculation, that beats being in a bunch of hot water any day.
groan.
then follows a weird piece of spec-fic about a world without peanut butter, where he again mentions oprah, but the piece isn’t much worth mentioning.
then one about banjos:
Sometimes, when I’m at home waiting for the mail to come, I take my mind out for a walk, give it some leash, and follow along the best I can.
in case you were wondering about his method for writing these, there it is.
For instance, just the other morning I was wondering why anybody would want to spend their lives learning to play the trombone when they could play the banjo instead. All that pushing and pulling (on a bunch of pipe that looks like it should be connected to a toilet) just makes me seasick. And where does the slide go when the trombone player pulls it in? Does he swallow it like a sword swallower? I know it doesn’t exit out the back of his head because that would be noticeable—and a little bit messy.
and it follows from there. it is particularly corny. and no one likes banjo players, despite his passionate essay in their favor.
then we are off to the races with “the theory of relative stupidity;” a theory he has himself devised, whose name he proceeds to deconstruct word-for-word in order to ramp up the corniness to eleven.
for example:
Next is the word “Relative”—a word that means comparative and qualified, but it could also be used to describe my Aunt Edna in El Paso. A lot of English words have more than one meaning, and that’s why most students hate their English classes.
and:
The words “of” and “the” are extra words we don’t really need. Think of them as additional government employees—he ones who just stand around watching the others work.
except, we do need those words. we need them a lot. says the girl who never once hated english class.
it is not his finest work.
then there is an article about waltzing. where he again mentions oprah. what is his obsession with oprah?
and this, too:
I suppose the Samba or the Rumba offers a more intense cardio workout, but that means more sweat. People who waltz would rather keep sweating to a minimum. Besides, those Latin dances require tight clothing, tan skin, and fake foreign accents—and for us red-blooded American men, that’s a no-no.
indeed.
then there is an essay where he contemplates a blob living in his fridge. i think he was really struggling with inspiration that day.
but no mention of oprah.
then he gets me back with an essay about his mini-van, and how emasculating it was to drive it to the hardware store for materials to build the aforementioned goat shed and how it would have been both more manly and more practical to have owned a pickup truck for the transportation of these materials, and how one can remain a macho man in a similar situation, through subterfuge.
then comes the essay that contains the anecdote about the melting ice cream—about how he is a talker, and goes on and on while people’s eyes glaze over. which i can see. but i appreciated his self-awareness, and it made me smile.
although he does go too far with this sentence:
Any monkey can write about politicians or movie stars or fancy cars being driven by highfaluting people who have more money than sense (or cents), but it takes a rare talent who can ramble on and on about something like goat poop and make it sound as important as a presidential address, but without the smell.
which is both a poor pun, and inaccurate to boot.
then there is one about his role as a bus driver, and the philosophical lessons he has learned along the way. which was cute and folksy in the right way this time.
then a sort of annoying piece about percentages, and how people throw them around in casual speech. meh.
then one about animals and how smart they are, with this one good point:
And then there’s the story about the chimps that can make and use tools (I usually buy and lose mine). They make spears out of tree limbs, jab them into other creatures and eat them—which makes me have “Planet of the Apes” nightmares because it sounds less like they’re making tools, and more like they’re making weapons.
Dolphins, on the other hand, are too sneaky to need tools.
which i agree with. dolphins are a close second to goats in the “evilest animal ever” race.
then, another bus driver article. which, forgive me, this is the one where he talks about his philosophies. the other one was just about how important his job is, and how perilous. both are good, though. but then i always did like my bus driver. his name was arthur duck, and he let me play whatever i wanted on his tape deck, and we would talk music. i liked that power when i was young. and that story did not have a creepy ending, before you ask. i come from a wholesome land without pedophiles.
but then the next story lost me completely. it was called “if we are what we eat, we’re in trouble” which is a good title, but he asserts:
A man’s ability to invent new and tasty food combinations is what separates us from other forms of creatures, namely women. Men have this innate need to try something new, daring, and “out of the box.” Women, on the other hand, have this innate need to tell us we’re vile and disgusting.
which is ridiculous and condescending, and for the record, one of my favorite sandwiches involves peanut butter, applesauce, and salt-and-vinegar potato chips.
and then he goes on to take credit for inventing the “waffle sandwich.” which he in no way did.
thumbs down to this one
then there was a piece about that thing about how french women never get fat, but also do not go to the gym. so he is taking that to mean he can be very very lazy and still lose weight, even when he is eating a half-gallon of ice cream—this is his (tongue-in-cheek) life-plan.
he does make one good point, though:
Gyms are sad, smelly places where young people with a lot of energy go to sweat because they look good while sweating; whereas old people just look like sad, sweaty old people trying to ward off the Grim Reaper for a couple more years without blowing a knee or a hip.
even a weird, sexist texan is right twice a day.
then there is a prolonged fantasy about buying a mac and hiding the evidence of this purchase from his wife. i think you had to be there.
then we are at a piece about people who complain, or dissemble or delude themselves which i rather enjoyed.
then a little more about goats.
which i liked specifically for “goat mystery number 5”:
If i shine a flashlight at my goats and their eyes shine, why does it give me the willies? A cat’s eyes does the same thing, but it’s not as creepy. Shining Goat Eyes make you believe that if you slowly back away, you’ll be okay, but if you turn and run, those little buggers will chase you down, gore you in the leg, drag you to the ground by your khaki pants, and feast upon every ounce of eatable you.
it is not really a “mystery,” though. it is just factual.
then a tired little piece about his mother-in-law and the holiday season, complete with stereotypical son-in-law gloom about a social gaffe that he didn’t actually make, but decided to pretend he did for the purpose of this column. which he then says is all a lie and his own mother-in-law is grand.
this is the first essay in which he starts obsessing over his lack of a tackle box. which is not a euphemism, but i think does function as a metaphor, perhaps.
then an article on snoring.
I do not snore. Yes, there are times I make sounds like a Harley-Davidson Fat Boy doing 85 mph down the interstate, but I don’t consider that snoring. That’s wishful dreaming with sound effects.
it’s cute, but also what you would expect, with many instances of corniness i am too weary to type out here.
then there is one about holiday shopping, and how men (he-men rarrr) can endure it and the nagging of their wives by making it into a military-type excursion.
the final piece takes the form of a letter to santa, in which he once again bemoans his lack of a tackle box, and how he will need one to impress his not-yet-existing grandson. which escalates into all the things he will then need to go along with the tackle box. which isn’t really funny to me, but i can see the appeal to some.
so, there it is. will this book be as big as fifty shades? probably not. but it amused me occasionally when it was not doing things to annoy me. it wasn’t painful, and if we remember what this was—a collection of little columns in a little newspaper, we can forgive it some of its shortcomings, can’t we??
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