I’ll just take a number and leave the brood with you. Come here Lily, Jessica, Billy and Tiny! Yes, Tiny has enormous horns. That’s called irony. Wait, why does that sign say “Coat Check?” Are you telling me I can’t leave my goats here for three to five hours while I have margs with the girls and possibly meet up with the hunk I met on Farmers Only? It appears I’ve mistaken this coat check for a goat check.
When I first saw the info on your website, I assumed you had made a typo. Surely, a nightclub of this caliber would have a goat check. I am a woman of certain needs, and right now, that need is a goat check, not some silly coat check. My goats suffer from terrible separation anxiety and leaving them at home is simply out of the question. And no, I’m not one of those weirdos who claims that her farm animals are her emotional support animals. These goats are my children.
I’m sure we can work something out. Sure, they might chew through all the coats in this place, but that means less work for you! If you get thirsty, you can just squeeze Jessica and enjoy a glass of fresh milk. Brown cows don’t make chocolate milk, but my brown goats do. I’ve even been told that Lily’s milk tastes like matcha. I’m doing you a service by leaving my goats with here. You must get lonely, stuck with all these coats who don’t have horns or larger than life personalities. My goats will keep you company on this dark and cold night.
You’re telling us to “get the hell out?!” You know what, I don’t mind you speaking to me in such a manner, but please do not say such awful things to my goats. They did nothing to deserve such inhumane treatment. Look, I don’t get out a lot. My goats are my life’s work and though I wouldn’t change it for the world, it can get lonely sometimes. Oh, you have children? Well, I have kids in the only true meaning of the word. Not the same thing at all, but nice try.
You’re going to call security? How. Dare. You. You didn’t hear it from me, but Tiny has problems with authority and will start head-butting everyone within a ten foot radius if he gets nervous. Can I straight up bribe you to watch my goats? All I have on me are goat pellets, but I’m sure the bank across the street knows the exchange rate.
I’m going to report you to the North American Goat Society for having sherpa in here. Sherpa! Around my goats! The audacity. Look, you’re making Tiny upset. The last person who made Tiny upset hasn’t left a rubber room for three years. Isn’t that right, Tiny? See, he’s nodding. He agrees that you’re being cruel and selfish right now.
You’re calling the police? Are you out of your mind?! My goats have done nothing wrong. You’re the one who has refused my generous offers again and again. If you make any sudden movements, Tiny is probably going to smash your face with his horns. Watch my goats, or go into thousands of dollars in debt from hospital bills and me suing you into oblivion for goat abuse. The choice is yours.
Great! Glad that’s settled. Now I can go drink this mason jar of spiked goat’s milk in peace. Don’t forget to give them each ten drops of melted down gold bars via syringe every hour. Only the best for my children. Have fun you guys! Don’t kill the babysitter while Mama hooks up with a hot chicken farmer.
Bobbie Armstrong is a former child, current writer and student. Her work has appeared on McSweeney’s, Slackjaw, Belladonna Comedy, Little Old Lady, and her parents’ fridge. Follow her existential crisis @bobbien_