Death by Goat

Contrary to popular belief I DID NOT win the $370 million lottery on Tuesday night. I know I said I was going to, but I was wrong. Were you ever wrong? It happened to me.

Instead, I actually lost the lottery. Most people don't realize this, but if you don't play the lottery at all - you can't lose it; but plop down your $1 and you've got a 217,497,189,219 in 217,497,189,220 chance of losing. To put it mildly: chances are good.

I did a little research and it turns out - I have infinitely higher chances of dying in......say..... an animal-drawn vehicle than I have of hitting the lotto. I forked over $1 to get in on the Big Game with my coworkers, but do I avoid goat carts? Certainly not. I'd take a quick spin in your average goat cart any day. If the mood were to strike I might even be willing to pay as much as $2 for that priviledge - thereby increasing my chances of untimely death by 1 in 37,110 according to the somewhat pessimistic statisticians of the National Safety Counsel.

Which brings me to my point: if it costs me $2 to die in a goat cart - I'm definitely going to come back and haunt that goat. Thats going to be one unhappy goat when I'm done with him.

I hope that $2 was worth it, Devil Goat.

JGE

Your Odds Aren't Good

Interestingly enough: while doing some research for my Goat Cart project (above) I noticed that the National Safety Counsel has an entire litany of published statistics on the likelihood of the average man falling prey to various elaborate modes of death. Now, this strikes me as an odd thing for a "Safety Counsel" to publish; I mean, do they want us to be safe, or do they want us to die in interesting ways? I can't tell.

Regardless, the NSC published their statistics in a paper ironically titled "Odds of Dying" which is dominated by a variety of interesting statistics and figures with average man's percentage "chance of death" for a given activity arranged in a long column to the right.

Not to upset the goat cart, but friends; the column adds up to 100%.

I scrolled down to the very bottom hoping to find that someone at NSC had sense of humor enough to remark that, though your chances of falling down a chimny naked while shaving in the dark are slim; ultimately - you're toast.

The stiffs at the NSC failed to drive my point home, but just to clarify: your chances of death are, in my opinion - excellent.

However, until the great golden goat cart pulls up for me; I'd like to see the NSC crank out some new statistics like:

10. garage vs. carport deaths (I have a carport, do you?)
9. parakeet-related deaths
8. dryer lint: weapon, or fuzz for hamsters?
7. dying in the front yard vs. the back
6. sword-related deaths
5. nailguns and the workplace
4. haircut-related infections
3. sunburn deaths (I've come close)
2. death from sheer terror in a movie theater

and of course:

1. dying naked

Yes Ma'am.

Sometime in the fall of last year I gently inquired of Meredith whether she would feel comfortable shooting a shotgun at a clay target. It is, after all, an intimidating prospect to the uninitiated.

A look of intense concentration immediately came over her face; "I want to shoot something so its feathers explode," she replied.

Fair enough.

So, after beating my good friend TOMMY STATHAM soundly at sporting clays and demonstrating a great deal of proficiency with her new 20ga shotgun, Meredith took to the quail woods. Gun in hand she patiently received instruction on proper quail hunting etiquette, loaded her midget gun, and advanced on the little pointer that had been arrested mid-bound and frozen in place at the scent of nearby quail.

As Meredith advanced, the bird burst from beneath her feet. In one swift motion she mounted her gun like a pro and tracked the quail's flight. Her tiny shotgun boomed and friends: feathers exploded.

She actually beat the dog to the downed bird and ran it back to us crowing the whole while, "I GOT IT I GOT IT!!" When she got to me she said "I KNOW - LETS GET IT MOUNTED!!"

So, that is how it came to be that shortly after noon on a cold Sunday in February; Mr. Jerry Mosely, Taxidermist Extraordinaire, opened his shop door and received in a very serious Meredith Q., Marketing Guru, dead bird in hand.

Totally unfazed by the proliferation of huge African game adorning Jerry's hallowed walls, Meredith reached into her Gucci purse, proudly lifted out a (very) dead bobwhite quail, and simply said: "Jerry, I want you to stuff this dead bird and put it on my wall."

Yes Ma'am.