Don’t Kill Whiteboy; Not a Racial Post

Most of you may not know this about me, but I love goats.

 A lot.

When I was a kid living out in the boonies, my family owned a “herd” of goats. We had about 10 adults and a few babies from time to time. They actually make great pets and can be quite affectionate.

In my opinion, probably the cutest thing in the world would have to be a baby goat.

When I was about 8 years old, one of the mother goats gave birth to the first baby goats we ever had: Twins.

They were both completely white and beautiful.

My sister and I named them Cottonball and White Boy.

At the time, my parents weren’t very supportive of our decision to name them, and we had no idea why.

As time went on, much to the chagrin of my parents, my little sister and I grew more and more attached to our new baby goats.

My parents finally realized that these animals which were intended to be livestock had inadvertently crossed over the blurry little line of becoming pets.

So one day they had a talk with us.

 Mother: So, you understand why we got these goats don’t you?

Me:  For love.

Mother: No. Not exactly.

Me: To be in tune with Mother Nature?

Mother: No…y-“

Me: I like Jack Hanna.

Mother: No! We got them to eat.

The 4th of July was coming up and my parents were throwing a big party. They wanted to roast one of the baby goats for everyone to eat (you don’t eat full grown ones).

Now before you go and judge my parents for roasting a goat, you should know that in some cultures this is perfectly normal, like in Mexico….. and Iran.

My mother warned me that they were going to have to use one of the goats for roasting at the party.

But I just thought she was bluffing.

So I immediately moved on with my life, flooded with the delusion that my parents couldn’t possibly be serious.










Dun Dum Duummmm!



One day, a few weeks later,  my little sister and I were playing up in the tree house together when we spotted Mom and Dad out with the goats.

The only problem was, my sister and I were both bare feet-ed and the path between us and my parents was a landmine of stickers and thorns.

We knew time was not on our side, so as fast as we could, my little sister and I ran into the house to get our shoes.

Once in our bedroom, within seconds I had my shoes on and was ready for action.

Yet, I forgot that Rebecca was still at the age where she was struggling with the whole shoes on the feet concept.

I remember her shoes were those little Jellies that were so popular back then.

As soon as the shoes were on her feet, we rushed out our back door as fast as our little legs could carry us.

Ok let’s be real here. If it was my dad it probably looked more like this:

Upon seeing our reaction, my parents realized that the goat had, despite their efforts and warnings, become more of a pet to us than livestock.

I think they felt pretty bad about the whole thing

So, never again was a goat eaten at our house….after that particular day of course.

Discussion Questions:

No questions. Just a comment: Oh, Alexa. Really?

What?! I was a kid. I bounced back easily from hardship.


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9 responses to “Don’t Kill Whiteboy; Not a Racial Post

  1. Tara

    Awesome post, Alexa! Hilarious.

  2. Mr. Fred

    You’re only “Kidding”, right? RIGHT? How could you? Have you no taste? ;-P
    And my two favorite goat jokes:
    Little Johnny’s goat was hit by a car, and unfortunately, died.
    Mom and dad tried their best to console their young son. “You know, Johnny, it’s not your fault the goat died, it was just fate.”
    But Little Johnny would have none of it.
    So, in a last gasp attempt, Little Johnny’s dad said, “He’s probably up in Heaven right now with God. He’ll be happy there, so you don’t have to feel bad anymore.”
    Little Johnny asked, “What would God want with a dead goat?”

    And this gem
    A rancher named Clyde had a car accident.

    In court, the trucking company’s fancy lawyer was questioning Clyde. “Didn’t you say, at the scene of the accident, ‘I’m fine,'” asked the lawyer.

    Clyde responded, “Well, I’ll tell you what happened. I had just loaded my favorite goat, Bessie, into the…”

    “I didn’t ask for any details”, the lawyer interrupted. “Just answer the question? Did you not say, at the scene of the accident, ‘I’m fine!’?”

    Clyde said, “Well, I had just got Bessie into the trailer and I was driving down the road… ”

    The lawyer interrupted again and said, “Judge, I am trying to establish the fact that, at the scene of the accident, this man told the Highway Patrolman on the scene that he was just fine. Now several weeks after the accident he is trying to sue my client. I believe he is a fraud. Please tell him to simply answer the question.”

    By this time, the Judge was fairly interested in Clyde’s answer and said to the lawyer, “I’d like to hear what he has to say about his favorite goat, Bessie.”

    Clyde thanked the Judge and proceeded, “Well as I was saying, I had just loaded Bessie, my favorite goat, into the trailer and was driving her down the highway when this huge semi-truck and trailer ran the stop sign and smacked my truck right in the side. I was thrown into one ditch and Bessie was thrown into the other. I was hurting, real bad and didn’t want to move. However, I could hear ole Bessie moaning and groaning. I knew she was in terrible shape just by her groans. Shortly after the accident a Highway Patrolman came on the scene. He could hear Bessie moaning and groaning so he went over to her. After he looked at her, he took out his gun and shot her between the eyes. Then the Patrolman came across the road, gun in hand, looked at me, and said ‘How are you feeling?’

    “Now what the hell would you say?”

  3. Cyndi

    Awesome, so totally awesome! Especially the reality picture of your dad with his shorts and gun. I almost died laughing. Love it Love it Love it.

  4. Tricia Hayes

    I actually remember that 4th of July, and Rebecca telling everyone that they were eating Whiteboy! I still can’t eat goat because of that.

  5. Mr. Fred

    Did you play some funky music for Whiteboy?

  6. BAWHAHAHAHAHA! “I EAT BABY FOOT!” Growing up on a ranch, I appreciate this blog very much! When we got too attached to a bottle calf, that calf would get to grow up to have calves of her own….unless she wasn’t a she…then “she” filled our deep freeze.

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