The most evil map I’ve ever seen

*my favorite thing: “1 dot = 500 goats”

[courtesy of alert reader and fellow goat-hater Peter]

The (turtle) bachelor

All you haters can read my wikipedia entry for Awesome (the cat), except that those bastards at Wikipedia deleted it prontospeed

Awesome (the cat)

-Summary
-Awesome’s story
-Childhood, and gender revelation
-Feline adolescence
-Supposed abandonment
-Blatant falsehoods

Summary

Awesome the cat is a rugged beast who roams the Mt. Pleasant neighborhood of Washington, DC, particularly Kilbourne and 18th streets. He has exceptionally thick black fur, with white spots on his feet, chest, and stomach. His whiskers are unrivaled, his tail is elephantine, and his dreadlocks approach Bob Marley’s in quality. He has never lived indoors, or used a litter box, or been bathed. He eats with his fingers, and licks his chops. He reacts to catnip much in the way that Marion Barry reacted to crack. He’ll eat canned cat food, but he prefers barbecued meats. He regularly catches squirrels and birds. He sleeps where he feels like it. He doesn’t take crap from anybody. He is a manly, rugged cat, even if he doesn’t have balls anymore.

Awesome the cat is also, behind the furry veneer, an exceedingly friendly animal. He is a neighborhood socialite, snubbing nobody. He’ll follow you for blocks. His meow is one of greeting, not one of whining. He’s an extrovert, and likes shoving his tail up your shorts or attacking your foot. He’s not all goth and creepy and reclusive and Unabomber psycho like some cats. Awesome is awesome.

Awesome’s story:

Awesome was just a small, gender-neutral un-named furball when Jonny Waldman found him on December 29, 2005. This was at the Columbia Rd./Calvert St. gas station, where Jonny had stopped to fill up his tires. Awesome (then un-named) climbed out of a stack of tires, and inspected the inside Jonny’s Nissan like he owned it. It was a warm day. Jonny asked the gas station attendant about the lineage of the nascent beast, and was informed that the cat had been left there, abandoned. So Jonny adopted it, and brought it home. The next day, Jonny walked up to Petco, on Connecticut Ave., and paid $8 to have Awesome’s name etched into a small metal tag.

Childhood, and gender revelation

Less than two weeks later, big news reverberated around Mt. Pleasant. Here’s the original news announcement:

—

VET DISCOVERS BALLS; AWESOME IS A BOY!

Jan 12, 2006 — Washington, DC — Shock! Disbelief! Insanity! Two weeks after being adopted and brought back to life, Awesome, and his/her/its true identity, has at last been revealed by a medical expert — and it’s not what anybody thought.

According to an unnamed, undescribable veterinarian at the DC Humane Society, Awesome the cat has two awesome tiny cat-sized testicles hidden somewhere amid his thick black fur, making him a full-fledged member of the male club.

Soon after Awesome’s balls were discovered, they were surgically removed, though, prompting calls from Mr. Milton Ballsman, the president of Washington’s Male Club Local Union 43, to deny membership status to Awesome.

Mr. Ballsman, though, retracted his statement after Jonny5, Awesome’s awesome owner, threatened to remove Mr. Ballsman’s balls if anyone so much as thought of messing with Awesome.

Employees at the DC Humane Society, overhearing Jonny5’s awesome threat to protect Awesome and Awesome’s awesome status as a male, cried out in support of Jonny5.

“Word up!,” one said.

“That’s awesome for Awesome,” said another.

“Meow,” chimed in Awesome.

And then, while nobody was looking, the unnamed veterinarian hung TBTFBTA (The Balls That Formerly Belonged To Awesome) from the rear-view mirror of his 1996 Toyota Camry, and sped off towards the Maryland suburbs.

—-

Feline adolescence:

Over the next seven months, Awesome thrived under Jonny’s care at 3161 18th St. Awesome grew furrier, and dreadlockier, and learned to fetch sticks. He learned how to antagonize the two huge dogs next door, while avoiding their wrath. He learned how to peek into the kitchen, and how to climb up onto the roof. His popularity grew, even though he never joined Facebook or Myspace. He humped every female cat in the neighborhood, and never wore a condom, and never fathered any offspring. Awesome was a party animal, and was a key part of the Triumvirate of Awesomeness, the other two elements of which were a Keg of YuengLing and a barbecue grill fashioned out of a 55-gallon steel drum. As always, Awesome didn’t restrain his awesomeness.

Supposed “abandonment”:

In July of 2006, Jonny moved to San Francisco, and left Awesome under the care of his neighbors at 3159 Kilbourne St. Awesome would have liked San Francisco, and Jonny wishes he could have brought Awesome to the west coast, but Awesome would not have fared well during a month-long stop in Wyoming, a land of much larger, furrier, ruggeder, more carnivorous beasts. So it was with great sadness that Jonny said so long to Awesome. “Keep on being awesome, Awesome,” he said.

Blatant falsehoods about Awesome the cat:

Contrary to the opinions of some softer, wussier cat-owners:

*Awesome the cat would not “be happier indoors.”

*Awesome the cat would not be “happier without all those dreadlocks.”

*Awesome the cat does not “need to see a vet.”

*Awesome the cat has not “been abandoned.”

Additionally, a statement on one neighborhood forum attesting to Awesome the cat’s age (”this has been his home for almost a decade”) is untrue, unless 3.5 years equals “almost a decade.”

Furthermore, the statement “he was left behind by his irresponsible previous human” is both syntactically weird and unsubstantiated. First, “Previous human” suggests that Jonny was once, but is no longer, a human. This is not the case. Jonny hasn’t forsaken the species, and still has balls. And while “irresponsible” may be a suitable description for Jonny, it is unsubstantiated in this case, as Jonny carefully arranged for Awesome’s care after his departure. If anything, bringing Awesome to Wyoming to get devoured by a coyotoe/moose/bear would have been irresponsible. Last but not least, Jonny is not Awesome’s human anymore than Awesome is Jonny’s cat. Jonny believes that you east coasters gotta stop getting all possessive about relationships like that, loosen up a bit, maybe smoke a little bit of crack if that’s what it takes.

Take THAT, Alcoholics Anonymous!

ZPG is biggering and biggering: more shops, more merch, more fun.

I’m most excited about new “53 miles per beer” stickers, and, at long last, “53 miles per burrito” patches.

Tell your friends Santa just woke up from hibernatation, went on a bender, shaved his head, got a skanky tattoo, and traded in his sleigh and those dumbass reindeer (parking was always a bitch, and you know how NOT fun it is to clean up reindeer poop in a plastic bag? You can’t use just a regular bag. You need a friggin industrial size garbage bag!) for a classy Italian bike. Yeah.

Hitler, on the frustrations of owning a car

Rejected McSweeney’s submission #7: The recession-induced dissolution of my emotional well-being, as told through would-be brand-name teas

Prosperi Tea

Quali Tea

Masculini Tea

Fecundi Tea

Sereni Tea

Austeri Tea

Fragili Tea

Temeri Tea

Absurdi Tea

Indigni Tea

Increduli Tea

Animosi Tea

Frivoli Tea

Mendaci Tea

Brutali Tea

Vulgari Tea

Pauci Tea

Calami Tea

Pi Tea

Bipolari Tea

Pover Tea

Duplici Tea

Immorali Tea

Depravi Tea

Insani Tea

This week in goat/bike news

After my brush with catastrophe three weeks ago, a lot of friends wrote to me to help me metaphorically lick my wounds. Thad suggested I was immortal. Jon sent me some music. Julie said she’d send cookies and whiskey. Ethan told me to hang in there, Lydia wrote me a poem, Ben expressed consolation for my pants, Nick invited me on some good rides, and Erin suggested that healing could best be attained by making a big pot of soup and then jerking off. Such great friends, huh? In any case, I’m fine, and so is my bike — though apparently I was riding on a broken rear axle for at least 10 days. Yikes!

Since I still haven’t heard anything from the Emeryville Police Department, I figured I’d speed things up a bit and post the license plate numbers (all from California) of the potential culprits:

6R23535

3U28991

4J14124

6Y76547

In other, Slightly-Less-Cathartic (SLC) news: Wes sent me a photo of a dead goat, which warms my heart. It’s from Arlington, VA — and the crazy part is nobody’s rated it yet. I give it a 10 out of 10.

Speaking of dead goats, I’ve noted that it’s possible to hunt for rare Russian goats by helicopter. The method is so successful that only 200 of them are left, which only makes those last 200 goats all the more exciting to shoot. Unfortunately, it’s expensive ($2,000 per hour) and risky (helicopter crashes, criminal investigations, public scorn.) But true goat haters are so focused and determined they don’t care what price they have to pay.

Justin pointed me to a hilarious blog that’s ostensibly about bike racing at a girls college.

Beau wrote to me from Idaho, and asked me to donate stuff for an upcoming alleycat/fundraiser for the Boise Bicycle Project. A ZPG donation is headed their way.

Brandon sent me a photo of his ZPG bag on mushrooms, and Roland, from ReLoad Bags, sent me a photo of a related bag. Right on, brothas.

Oh – and ZPG stuff is now available at a few more shops:

Manitou Bikes, in CO

Lee’s Cyclery, also in CO

The Recyclery, in PDX

Slippery Pig Bikes, in Phoenix

Hit and Run

I was hit by a car at 8:20 this evening on the 3300 block of Powell St., in Emeryville. I’m OK. No, I’m not OK. I’m not hurt — just scrapes and bruises — but I feel like I want to simultaneously cry and scream and vomit and shit myself.

It was a white truck with a camper top, off-white, pearly perhaps, and boxier than any new model. Maybe a Toyota. We were both on Powell street, heading west. It was drizzling, and almost dark. He hit me from behind, and didn’t stop, even when I screamed. I never saw the driver.

For a split second, flying through the air, I wondered how it was going to turn out.

My glasses flew off my face. My water bottle launched into the road. My bike lay sideways, the chain all jangled up in the wheel. By the time I looked up, which was pretty damn fast, the truck was 100 feet away, and I couldn’t make out a license plate. I was angry before I was in pain.

Because Powell st. is a dead-end road, I knew I had a chance of catching the hit-and-runner.

I yelled HELP, hoping that I’d find a witness. Nothing. I limped to my feet, and stood in the middle of the road, and flagged down the first car to come by. The driver didn’t speak English. No help.

I called 911, mildly astonished that I was able to move my arms, hands, fingers, and wrists with such fluidity. A broken wrist is the injury I dread most. Broken wrists would mean no biking, no climbing, no writing, no banjo playing, and no jerking off. I’d probably figure out a way to jerk off, but still, it terrifies me that someone could take such a simple, basic pleasure away from me. Life is that delicate.

A few minutes later, when the police officer arrived and asked if I needed an ambulance, I wasn’t sure, because you still can’t really assess how it turned out, even though that instant of flying through the air is long since gone. You’re up on your feet, sure, but you’re shivering, frantic, hyped-up, and all rubbery. You don’t trust your faculties.

The officer asked me to move my bike off the road, then asked me questions and took notes. He asked for my ID and my phone number. I paced back and forth, wincing in pain. My left knee was stiff, and swelling up. My left hip bone and left elbow seared. “Any other injuries?” he asked. “My elbow. I can tell because it’s wet. I can feel the blood in my sleeve.” He asked me to roll up my sleeve, which I did, slowly. After that, he asked about my bike, and whether it was damaged. It seemed such an unusual question, like things were proceeding too fast. I put the chain back on, and flipped it over, to see if the wheels still spun. I felt drugged, sluggish. I was in no condition to focus on logic, mechanics, or machinery. But the bike seemed OK. I had to spell out P-I-N-A-R-E-L-L-O for the officer. “A ten speed?” he asked. “Twelve speeds, actually,” I said. Why’d I correct him?

Two more officers showed up, and drove to the parking lots at the end of Powell street, looking for a white truck with a camper top. I locked up my bike on the nearest pole, then got in the officer’s car, to go ID the truck that had hit me.

It was hopeless, and frustrating, and confusing. Short term memory is a bitch. There were two suspect trucks — one far too curvy and shiny and bright white, and one with a big silver and red stripe across the back. It’s a toss up, I said. “It’s gotta be one hundred percent,” the officer said.

I wanted to press pause. I wanted to consult a lawyer and cry and rest and breathe and drink something and come back to the scene more focused. I had the officer write down both license plates because I didn’t know what else to do.

I asked for advice. He told me he’d seen cases like this where the driver had gotten off. “If he plays his cards right,” the officer began. I couldn’t believe it.

I jumped out of the car, and touched the hood of the second truck, hoping it’d be warm, so that I could make up my mind. Detective Waldman was frantically searching for clues.

The hood was cold, and slick with raindrops. There were no marks on the font fender. No smashed light, or bent side mirror. I gave up, deflated.

The officer reminded me that I was pretty lucky. He’d seen bikers sent to the emergency room after collisions involving windshields. He was right. I couldn’t really complain. I hadn’t been wearing a helmet, and I’d gotten away with cuts, scrapes, and bruises. My bike was fine. My jacket was ripped at the elbow, my sweatshirt a little bloody, and my cell phone a little scratched – but that’s all. Even the groceries I’d been carrying in my bag were OK. Not one of the two dozen eggs was broken, and the loaf of bread was not squished, and the jars of tomato sauce were not broken, and the quart of milk was not punctured. Only three cans of soup were dented, which makes me wonder if they somehow saved me further injury. What if the side mirror collided with my giant grocery-laden bag, and the cans absorbed the sudden impact, so that I was launched, somewhat more softly, ass over teakettle? Is that possible?

Years ago, a good friend sustained a terrible climbing fall that would have killed him if not for the helmet he had been wearing. Another friend, taking a stroll on a dirt road, nearly died when a truck slipped out of gear, rolled down a slight incline, and trapped him beneath it. I just don’t understand risk.

I know I ought to wear a helmet, and I almost always do. Sometimes, though, like when it’s just a short ride on one mellow road to the grocery store, I don’t bother, as if I’m relieving myself of some sort of burden. I didn’t feel like it. I got complacent. So much for that privilege.

The officer dropped me off at my bike, gave me his card, told me I’d have a report in seven to ten days, and drove off.  I sat down, called a friend, and tried to calm myself. It didn’t work. The officer hadn’t let me down, or neglected his duties in any way, but I didn’t feel like I’d been helped. I felt like I’d been served, and no more. Like a transaction had taken place, something robotic, inhuman.

I unlocked my bike and walked through the parking lots. I wrote down the license plate numbers for myself. I also discovered a 3rd truck — a white Toyota with a camper top — that I hadn’t seen before. I wrote that license plate number down, too, and called the officer to tell him. I felt a surge of determination and hope, and also of fruitlessness and despair. How had the cops missed that car — the very thing I had described — in their search? What must the officer think of that biker now? Awfully meddling, no?

I spent an hour sitting in the shower. The hot water stung my wounds at first, but that didn’t bother me as much as my bruised knee, which refused to bend beyond 90 degrees. Afterwards, I had a hard time put my socks back on.

I thought about sticking a note on the three trucks: “A bicyclist was hit at 8:20pm on Friday, May 1 while riding westbound on the 3300 block of Powell street by a white truck like this one. Please contact the Emeryville Police Department.”

Would that help? Is that legal? And what do I want? I want to find the driver, and…I don’t know.

I wouldn’t mind a new jacket. But that’s not it. I’m not eager to capitalize on my position.

I wouldn’t mind pressing charges, but what for? I’m sure the hassle isn’t worth it.

I think I just want the driver to see me. I want the driver to see me cry, and scream, and vomit, and shit myself at the same time, and for him to know that’s what he did to me. That’s what he’s done to me. I won’t be the same out there for a while.

Jonny, where do you get all of your rhetorical questions?

First the news, then the less-outrageous fun.

Some video-game designer made a video about a proposed law in Idaho that would allow bikers to treat stop signs like yield signs, which seems strange because it’s the hicks who shoot up the signs, not the bikers, but maybe things are different in Idaho.

It looked like one of those newfangled “interactive” things, so I tried plugging in my Wii, but couldn’t figure out how to make the little dude go faster. Then I pushed a bunch of other buttons, and almost got it working, and then, right when he got up to speed and morphed into a bright green commuter outfit, really flying along, a giant red NO symbol (even worse than a sternly-worded warning not to hold the wrong end of a chainsaw) appeared on the screen, along with a large dollar figure. I figured I’d broken it, and the price tag was pretty high, so I closed the window and went back to Tetris.

Anyway, it caught my attention, because I recently discussed (or ranted, as the case may be) issues like this, and so much more, with the editors of Boneshaker: A Bicycling Almanac, which, for the record, is friggin’ wonderful. The first two issues were so good that I stayed up into the wee hours of the night gobbling them up. Take it from bike enthusiast who, on a recent bike ride, actually ran into three wild turkeys and maintained a brief but interesting gobble-laden conversation with them, and from a a literary elitist known for such profound statements as “Books is good,” and “Me like reading” — Boneshaker shakes my bones in the best possible way.

Here’s a hint of what I wrote. *Consonants have been removed for the author’s protection.

“ai e e oa ea ei an eae. I ea ei oeeae, a-aii, aie, a ioai — a eeeaie o e iyi oui. O a u i e ea e ee a oiia/oyi oe e ae ii o. O e a e ue eouio ei.”

Smart, huh?

In other goat related news, like 800 people alerted me to the goat on the front page of the NY times a few weeks ago, and the story that went with it: “Dr. Strangelove: How I learned to stop worrying and love the goat.

Stop worrying? NEVER! One redeeming feature of the story was the focus on dead goats — grilled, broiled, barbecued, or otherwise tortured — I mean cooked. Still, it made me shudder.

In other news, biking is hip these days. In Minneapolis and Denver, a wide range of “bike-people” — from white, affluent 25-year-olds to white, affluent 32-year-olds — are jizzing in their pants over two-dimensional representations of bicycles that they can hang up in their studios, thereby rendering bicycling less of an exclusive club activity.

I also got a bunch of other fan mail this week:

G., a serial lower-caser in Colorado Springs, sent me this note:

dear Jonny5,

I find your ZPG site to be seriously funny. by awesome coincidence, just last Saturday, as my wife and i were cruising the South Platte River trail north of Denver on our trusty Cannondale tandem, Janis (what can i say, she’s our blues-mobile), what did our eyes behold but a goat in a backyard next to the bike path. then today, i came across your site. i’m not usually one to believe in signs, but this is like a cosmic convergence is disconnected irrelevant information.

…watch out for the white vans…
-G.

I wrote back:

Hey G.,

Thanks for the encouragement, hombre. I, too, love living in the age of disconnected bits of irrelevant information, and am flattered to be considered the producer of some of it. Also, I dig the name Janis. I’ve been on that South Platte River trail, and never noticed the backyard goat, thank god. Rest assured, I’ll bring a weapon next time.

White vans? Am I missing something??

Cheers,
Jonny

Indeed, I was missing something. According to a brit named Ian Walker, drivers of white vans overtake cyclists an average of four inches closer than car drivers, while drivers of black cars give drivers the widest margins. Good to know. I’ll keep the eyes in the back of my head open.

Alert reader A. sent me a link to an SF chronicle “article” about flat biking routes in San Francisco featuring this atrocious wording: “if you just need to get to work without breaking a sweat or enjoy a weekend meander without performance-enhancing drugs, leave the mountains to the goats and cruise the flats.”

That’s what I expect out of a newspaper: practical, on-the-ground news-I-can-use, told in a tone that’s conversational, patronizing, and sounds like it’s coming from a vacuum-cleaner salesman, all at the same time. Ideally, it’d be in the present tense, so it sounds more ridiculous and faux-authoritative. Because that’s how my inner monologue sounds: “Why, look at that, today is Saturday. Methinks I fancy a weekend meander without performance-enhancing drugs.” The author, Michael Tanner, deploys an arsenal of big words like “topographically-neutral” and “no appreciable elevation gain” for the word “flat.” He also refers to “a short, walkable hump” — which made me think of the Mr. Tanner’s mom. For god sakes: if he’s getting paid to write this stuff, the newspaper industry is more royally F’d than I’d realized

Last but no more diminutive, W. tipped me off to a couple of scary goat-related developments:

Goat Finder, a “free nationwide listing of goats for sale” and Living Systems, here in San Francisco, where a woman named Charlotte will gladly rent you a goat. Prices aren’t listed, and apparently shipping is not available, and since there’s no FAQ section on the site, I can’t tell what would happen if, say, someone like me rented a goat for “grazing” and it somehow died as the result of a mysterious ritualistic sacrifice. Is Living Systems insured for stuff like that? Is a deposit required to rent a goat? Surely these questions have come up before

The weird part is that their “about us” page is so thorough and clear, much like my own “vision” page. You can read about the way they are “integrating community-based and ecologically informed models” to create “relevant and highly customized services for individuals, neighborhoods and municipal agencies” and how “long-term business relationships are valued and actively developed through multiyear contracting, direct marketing of long-term services, value-added long term services provided at discounted rates.”

It’s stuff like this, along with the use of “unnecessary quotes,” that makes the “new” “green” “movement” so awesome and accessible to the Hoi polloi. It is destined for greatness

crazy goat videos, part 5

(Thanks, Alexis, for passing this gem on.)

More (dead) goats in the news

Hey, wanna be an army doctor? Why not head to Fort Carson, CO and try practicing surgery on goats given faux combat wounds.

Don’t worry about the protesters from PETA. If one of them bothers you too much, try this little prank. Nothing sends a message like leaving a dead goat on someone’s doorstep.

I told you they were evil

from the NYTimes, 2/10/09

Goat haters unite!

3,000 miles away, in a land of tobacco and horses, there’s a courageous group fighting the same good goatless fight as ZPG. It’s called the
Childhood Goat Trauma Foundation (I’m not making it up), and it’s been around for more than 25 years. Not only do they have a sterling website dedicated to GTA (Goat Trauma Avoidance), they also apparently have an Investigative Team (which has kidnapped suspicious goats and shut-down evil goat farms) AND a Strike Force (which has thwarted terrorist goat plots). I am duly impressed, and jealous.

On the CGTF website, which is full of valuable information about rogue goats, rebel goats, terrorist goats, disturbed goats, and deranged goats (I’m not making any of this up, I swear), there’s a simple set of rules to live goatlessly by:

*stay alert

*don’t leave urban areas

*be suspicious of all farm animals

*avoid petting zoos (send a double instead!)

There’s also a simple set of rules to consult if the worst happens, and you do encounter a goat:

*don’t turn your back!

*stay away from younger goats!

*don’t seek safety up a tree

Elsewhere on the CGTF website, there’s photo evidence, an amazing survey, and this piece of fan mail; the best this goat-hater has ever seen:

From: XXXXXX@yahoo.com

Date: Fri Jan 21, 2005 10:11:41 AM US/Eastern

To: tour@goat-trauma

Subject: I’M A VICTIM! …

When i was a child a herd of wild bloodthirsty goats charged through our home, we had no idea what was happening, tiny furry horned monstrosities tore through our home eating all in their path. My mother and i where the only survivors and we did this by hanging from the celing fan. When the herd passed all that they left where a few scraps of wood, and blood stains on the foundation of our home. We found a few bones and a tooth that was dna tested and they where that of my sister, there was nothing to be found of my father. Ever since i have taken a role as vigilante bounty hunter and goat exterminator. The goats had driven me to a state of dependace upon drugs and alchohol. I have murdered over 6,000 goats both large and pigmy and have a horn from each. Since my discovery of your foundation i have been greatly relieved to find that many people have also experienced such tradgedies. I can never thank you enough, if it weren’t for you i’d still be a drunk slaughtering goats with an assault rifle across the country.

There’s also this frightful message; the most terrifying letter this goat hater has ever seen:

From: XXXXXX@haapi.mn.org

Date: Wed May 5, 2004 5:32:38 PM US/Eastern

To: trauma@goat-trauma

Subject: help

Help! please I don’t know how they found me but they got in the house and they are gnawing through the door. Please you are the only one who can help me. Send the police they bit the telephone lines. they are her fjsdiasoi;afgao;dsf fhelpl mdjfsadfjsd help ee afdsfjdfj send sd dskfs;lflddjgajhelfglafdjikfesoelp sen

Yikes!

Hats off to the CGTF, for their valiant efforts in the never-ending struggle against goats and the evil they embody.

Evil Goat News, part 8 (thanks, alert readers)

I’ve never worked in law enforcement, so I can’t speak from experience, but I imagine that cops have seen pretty much every trick in the book, and that they’re not deterred when their suspects transform themselves into goats. I mean, come on — you’d  have to be a total rookie to fall for that move.

That’s why police in Lagos, Nigeria, are holding a “black and white beast” (also known as a goat) in custody. According to the Kwara State Police Command Force, the goat is actually an armed robber who tried to steal a Mazda 323, and then, just before being apprehended, transformed into a goat. Apparently, there was a second car thief, but he got away, or transformed himself into something less obviously evil, like a squirrel, or a bird, or a tire, or a newspaper, or pretty much anything. I think Harry Potter once said something about using the powers of sorcery and witchcraft carefully.

The “best quote in the story” prize goes to Tunde Mohammed, a police spokesman, who was probably asked about what sort of investigation would follow.  “It… has to be proved scientifically,” he said, “that a human being turned into a goat.”

Buzkashi: the best team sport ever invented

If you blinked you might have missed it. This phrase — “A large black goat, beheaded, disemboweled” — was on the front page of the New York Times. Alas, you probably missed it. But not to worry, that’s why you’ve got me, your eyes in the sky, your one man surveillance team, your intrepid GITMMW (Goats-In-The-Mainstream-Media-Watchdog).

Now, the NY Times has run a couple of other stories mentioning goats, but this goat story was different… it was fantastic. It was about (and I’m not making this up), an ancient team sport, passed down from the days of Genghis Kahn, in which three teams of men on horseback in a dusty field compete to:

1) scoop up the 70-lb carcass of a frozen, beheaded, disemboweled goat;
2) gallop around a pole 75 yards away with it;
3) race back to their goal with it still in their possession

For completing elements 1, 2, and 3, a team is awarded 1 point. Matches often go to 30 or 40 points.

Yes, I know, it’s both the best use for goats I’ve ever heard of, and also maybe the best team sport ever invented. It’s called Buzkashi (which means “goat pulling”), and acclaimed war journalist Dexter Filkins calls it “polo played with a dead animal.” It’s times like these in which the life of a war journalist really has its appeal.

But wait, there’s more. Among other things:

a) There are no real boundaries to the game
b) Spectators, when not getting trampled, yell things like “Go in there and grab that goat!” (except in Farsi, which probably sounds way more dramatic)
c) Competitors whip each others’ horses and each other
d) The referee carries a Kalashnikov, in case things get out of hand
I’m not sure what was implied by “out of hand,” as the rules seem pretty clear to me.

How does it all end? How else: the winning team roasts the bedraggled goat. A thing of beauty. And they say sportsmanship is all gone.