Tuesday, April 13, 2010

So, the Real America Doesn’t Have Hills and a Goat Wants to Piss All Over My Inevitable Internet Fame

I returned to Los Angeles from Dallas, Texas, yesterday afternoon and nearly kissed the graffiti and gum covered sidewalk at the airport in my elation.

As much fun as I had picking up dead animal parts and being chased by beavers – not to mention tortured by small children – I think I was meant to live in an area of the world that doesn’t look like this:


But I should probably go hide now, because I might get my ass shot by a Texan with a shotgun. Those people have more pride in their state than is even possibly healthy. Oh yeah, and they sincerely believe California is a foreign country, as demonstrated by the barber who cut my brother’s hair in Coppell.

Barber: So, ye go to school, eh? (I can't write Texas accents - only pirate ones)

Brother: Yeah, I go to Whittier College – it’s basically in Los Angeles.

Barber: Ah, well, welcome back to America!

Brother: Umm, yeah, I’m actually from Los Angeles.

Barber: I see. Well boy, welcome TO America!

So, as it turns out, I’m not American. I’m Californian. This is totally okay, because if the real USA is a tribute to strip malls and BBQ, I totally understand the perception that the rest of the world has of us.

I liked Texas. I really did. The neighborhoods were beautiful – all the houses were in brick, and life was quiet. I gained a million pounds gorging on fried chicken and country gravy. And laughed at all the freeway-related things that were named after George Bush.


But I’m really hoping there are some more happenin’ cities than Dallas, because I had run out of things to do by the second day of my Texas expedition. So, if I am completely out of line here, please set me straight! Is Austin awesome? Are there some balling night clubs? Is my view completely skewed because I spent my whole trip trying to keep a nine year old out of a turtle pond?

Well, either way, Los Angeles still wins because it has hills.


The lack of hills in Dallas was literally giving me fucking nightmares.

It was like I had landed in a never-ending, landmark-less, apocalyptic wasteland. All the buildings were brick, all the grass was green, all the trees were the same kind of tree, and I never had any freaking idea where the fuck I was.

In Los Angeles, there are fucking hills. With iconic shit on them.

So, yeah, the biggest problem I had with Texas was how retardedly flat it was.

Hence, me making out with a Los Angeles sidewalk.

So, my first order of business upon returning to “faux America” was to establish a financially secure future by becoming famous on the internet, so that I could afford to live in a place with hills. And a beach.


Well, not the financially stable part. But I got my first comment from a person I don’t know personally, and it was a good one:



Nicole is one of my top five favorite bloggers, because she’s totally bad ass. And hilarious. And I totally did not solicit her in any way, shape, or form. Nope, people. Nicole was inspired to link to my Twitter because my bio gave her a “heart boner”.

I am officially awesome. (Evidence below)


["And also I forgot to tell you that I have a new hobby: stalking people's Twitter bios to find ones that give me the biggest heart boner. Like this chick (ME!) whose bio says, 'Basically starving to death because the economy sucks and I have an Asian Studies degree.'"]

Plus she follows me on Twitter now, and direct messaged me to tell me she had linked to me.

Well, basically my brain was exploding with blogger internet nerd happiness and I completely failed as a girlfriend because I was really, really distracted.

See, while I was madly commenting on Nicole’s blog post and tweeting simultaneously, The Boyfriend’s goat was chilling at his bedroom door.


And I was all like, eh, he’ll stay there.

And suddenly there was that sound that you only hear when A) someone turns on a faucet, or B) they release all the fluid in their bladder.

Oh. God.



I threw the laptop aside and stood up, so that I could start yelling some incoherent phrases at the baffled animal while looking like I was somewhat in charge. What came out of my mouth was something like, “What the…goat…shit….fuck…ummm….GET OUT!

Well, Surly (the goat) just stood there. And continued to urinate. Is this goat fucking disrespecting me??! Something tells me that when a goat stares dead in your eyes and continues to piss all over the carpet, what they are really saying is, fuck you, human person.



Sadly, before I could resolve the situation (and before Surly had emptied his extremely large bladder), The Boyfriend marched in to see what all my incoherent muttering was all about.

What he saw was his girlfriend, standing in the middle of his bedroom, letting a goat piss all over his carpet.

Well, he started screaming obscenities, and it became obvious that the goat was much, much more respectful of him because it got the fuck out in two seconds. But then it took a dump on his porch.


Then The Boyfriend turns to me with an accusatory why-the-fuck-were-you-letting-a-goat-desecrate-my-bedroom stare.

Which, really, was completely appropriate given the situation.

Luckily, The Boyfriend understood that I had been so swept up in my dreams of internet fame and glory that I didn’t realize the goat had entered the room. And, it was only upon hearing the sounds of goat pee flowing like the Niagara-fucking-Falls that I fully grasped the situation unfolding in front of me.

If I have learned anything from this experience, it is that lusting for fame is dangerous.

And potentially smelly.

P.S. So, the million dollars worth of medication prescribed to me by my dermatologist is working. And by "working" I mean that my face is on fire. And it's falling off. I would cry, but the tear trails would burn like a mutha fucker and probably become permanently branded on my skin. Fuck.


  1. Wait, WAIT. I want a goat. The part of this post where you love me and it's all warm and fuzzy has totally been replaced by how much I want a goat.

  2. No, no you don't want a goat. Dogs are cute and have paws - goats are all cute and have hooves. And horns. And they are three thousand times more stubborn than dogs. Plus they will literally eat your clothes, electronics, branches, etc, until you are naked and have no more possessions. And your yard (assuming you have one) will look like a desert.

    But, if you don't care about being naked and possession-less, by all means, go get yourself a goat!

  3. Where does one fit a goat in Los Angeles? I lived there for 4 years and saw approximately 0.000000234 places suitable for goat-life.

  4. Well, Scott - you put the goat in the stable area of your house with horse property. That is, if you live in a semi-rural Los Angeles county area like the Palos Verdes Peninsula. Which, fortunately, is where The Boyfriend and his goat reside.

  5. Aaah, I'm in this post!!! My dreams of internet fame are finally coming true too!!!

    I like your boyfriend's goat.

  6. Thanks, hellotaylor - I like the goat too, even though he's old and smelly. And despite the fact that he apparently likes to defecate indoors.

    Oh, brilliant plan: We should start a blogger pact and work together and then we'll all be famous. Flawless. Oh wait. I don't know how to make anyone famous because basically no one had read my blog before yesterday. Whoops.

  7. FUCK THAT GOAT. It has made it into the neighbors yard and is peeing and shitting on there porch.

  8. Well Turco, at least it didn't crap in your room.

    And what do you care about the neighbors? I would just think of as punishment for that dude's shitty drumming.

  9. Dear Taylor,

    I offer you a chance of internet stardom in my closet. Your fans will include my old drumset,hundrends of letters from Bank of America yelling at me, deceased girlfriends, and my cat "baby grey".

    What say you?

  10. Turco, the proper place for this discussion is in the comment section of your new personal ad: