We added two lovely ladies to the farm, and both of them have beards. It reminds me of living in Portland, Oregon, but the rent is lower and these women are easier to please.
One may have a bun, or possibly a tin can, in the oven. That is a goat joke. Please respect the craft.
Both goats have beards, opinions and the unearned confidence of men discussing politics at a gas station. They do not yet have names, but they already understand that I am the least qualified member of management.
We need names, but the household naming committee is crushing every idea I bring forward. Roxanne was rejected because I would sing it every time dinner was ready. Crosby was rejected even though Sidney Crosby is the GOAT. James Brown was rejected for the brown one, despite her being, scientifically speaking, a bad mother.
So I am turning to Facebook. Give me two names that go together and fit a pair of slightly suspicious, bearded Ohio ladies. Famous duos, music references and old-lady names are encouraged.
Management reserves the right to reject everything and call them “brown goat” and “other goat” for three months.
A name is destiny. Call one Daisy and she may become gentle. Call one Chaos and the insurance company gains evidence. I suggested names with history and culture. The goats suggested screaming until breakfast arrives, which appears to be their entire political platform.
This dispatch appears in What The F(arm): Sixty Dispatches from an Unqualified Ohio Farmer — $25, and the presses roll when 100 people pre-order.