4th March, 1989
Once there was a goat with red ears. As far as goats went, which in this particular neck of the woods they didn't, the large universal joint which made its way slowly through the underbrush, and promptly fell through a timewarp and landed in a new and greatly improved flavour of spoon. This caused great lumps of steaming green slime to explode upward, covering all within the room.
A time bomb ticked slowly, but then another goat entered the scene and was instantly put down by the vet. ``Can't have these chips lying around, my mother will have me put away! Gasp, should I have taken my own life?''. In the ensuing torment which followed, even a goat was better than nothing. Therefore, the goat herd had to be removed. Into the night they went, heavily armed with thongs and soggy teabags, ready for the dastardly deed, heading out across the elderberry fields in search of prey.
Past the decomposing warthog there lay another decomposing warthog. But, across the way was yet another decomposing warthog. ``Cor'', exclaimed Prunella, ``they breed decomposing warthogs around here.'' What was really needed was more frustrated semi-nubile electric fencing coils with various additional marshmallow knobs that glowed in the dark when you hooked it up to a rather large thermonuclear power station, although Rachael often claimed it would merely annoy goat herds by attracting the dreaded elderberry raiders from far Gondwanaland.
Slowly Robert stabbed the remaining goat in captivity. But little did he know the goat was really a sheep who was really a man. So the goat still lives.