Sometimes it’s hard to tell whether I’m joking or serious. So, from now on, when I’m serious, I’ll say something like…” Seriously.” If it’s a true story, I’ll start off with something like… “True story.”

True story.

I was at a wonderful party last month when a lovely young woman asked me if I really owned goats. Seriously. She’d seen the photo that I include in my emails.

I told her that I didn’t. She looked disappointed. I believe the word she used was “crestfallen.”

I explained to her that a friend (Bobby Nocco in Brooklyn!) had sent me the photo of 2 goats on a busted-up pickup truck, I thought it was funny, so I started including it in most of my newsletters.

Still, she looked…betrayed, like I was some kinda goat-herder impersonator.

Turns out, the lovely woman is a cheesemaker, and probably thought I was raising goats for their milk. I’m guessing the only thing you can do with goat’s milk is make goat cheese. I’ve never heard of people putting goat milk in their coffee. Or on their breakfast cereal. Goat milkshake, anyone?

It’s not that I have anything against goats. I’m a Capricorn, and our little mascot is a goat. I like goats. But I never felt the urge to actually own a few. I don’t wake up at 3 AM and say, “Damn! I wish I had me a couple goats!”

My Dad lived in upstate New York. The guy who sold him the land was a dairy farmer. There are lots of dairy farms in upstate New York. I’ve had a chance to meet some goats.

I mean, we didn’t shake hands–or hooves–but I got close enough to catch a whiff. There’s a reason for the expression “Smells like a goat.” Goats don’t exude a pleasant odor.

I can’t imagine what it would be like to milk a goat. But all respect to those who do!

True story—I once did a TV show in Baltimore; me and my friend Rei went around town doing oddball episodes for this show we were pitching called “Hobnobbin’ with Slim Slimski.”


We did some crazy stuff. For one episode I got a “MOM” tattoo on my forearm and then had it removed by a laser in a doctor’s office. For another episode, we followed a transvestite while he/she shopped for clothes. And in one stellar episode, we went to a county fair, and Rei wanted me to milk a cow.

I froze.

I’m a city boy. I’ve never milked a cow. I’ve never felt compelled to do such a thing. If my children were dying of thirst, I suppose I could get it done. If they asked nice. I’m just not real comfortable with the thought of milking a cow.

So I walked over to the cow; her name was Leslie. Seriously. She looked at me like “Who the hell is this guy??” I didn’t know whether I should pet her, or scratch her behind the ears, or run away screaming. I walked back to the small stool that was sitting by her udders.

I sat down. The cameras were rolling. I started to reach in, and then Leslie turned around and looked at me with those big, brown eyes, and…

I couldn’t do it.

Call me old-fashioned, but I just couldn’t just launch in and start mangling her mammaries. It would have been nice to go out on a couple dates first, maybe have a couple drinks before you start acting like Pepe Le Pew. So I did the gentlemanly thing, and got up from the stool and walked away.

I never saw Leslie again. I hope she understands why.

I walked away from Leslie because I have a deep respect for our bovine sisters.

Plus, I was really afraid I’d get kicked in the head.

Ain’t that a kick in the head?

Who loves ya?



Uncle Slimmy