Thank you! Don't forget to confirm subscription in your email.
When I was a lad in my 20s, as carefree and debonair as any other underpaid newspaperman, I happened to be a golfer who could flirt with par fairly often, and I was adventurous enough in those days to play any known or unknown thief who showed up at Goat Hills for whatever amount he fancied.
I had a ton of animals; I had a goat growing up, a bunch of rabbits, a vegetable garden.
I have always wanted to open up a brewery slash goat farm. Brew some beer, make some goat cheese, but that's kinda dreamy.
When I was eight years old, I wrote a paragraph-long short story about a goat on my mother's hundred-pound, black-and-white-screen laptop. The story came about largely because I liked the way the word 'goat' looked on the page, but I decided then and there that I wanted to be a writer. That desire never changed.
In sports, every day you can be the hero or the goat.
Love is not love, without a violin playing goat.
A close family member once offered his opinion that I exhibit the phone manners of a goat, then promptly withdrew the charge - out of fairness to goats.
Happiness isn't happiness unless there's a violin-playing goat.
I'd like to be reincarnated as a French tart. They're so beautiful and delicate - they're like my opposite. I'm more of a comfort food: goat cheese with garlic.
Well, only Japanese may understand it, but I'm like a goat or something that likes high places.