WordPress has taken to acting like blogspot of late. I couldn’t even put up my weekend post, which was very insightful, penetrating, informative, inspirational, stimulating, thought-provoking, revealing and intellectual even.
I am in a webcafe right now. That wonderful post is in the office.
This is what I have got for you here. Another article I found in that box when I was looking for my NSSF card.
Let me give it a decent intro:
Our reporter attended the the Munyonyo goat races and filed this report:
There was supposed to be a race going on around here, but none of the goats seemed aware of this. Speke Resort Munyonyo was hosting the Royal Ascot Goat Races 2000, Uganda’s little version of the horse races which take place in Britain. Only down here a lack of thoroughbred steeds forces fans make do with these silly beasts.
The goats were draped in little jerseys with numbers on them and given fanciful names. In what I surmise is the tradition of the real horse races, these names were listed alongside those of the goat’s parents. The name of the father (or “sire”) is prefixed with the preposition “by” and the mother’s (or “dam’s”) by “out of”. As in “Kay” out of “Manchester” by “Birdlike”. Some of them were very frivolous and witty: such as “We Have Run” out of “Beer”, by “Mistake”. And “Chronic Bronchitis” out of “Breath” by “Smoking”. The goats had no idea what was expected of them.
Befuddled, and clueless, they trotted dizzily round the course, absolutely ignorant of the fact that one of them was supposed to move faster than the others. In one race only one goat seemed to have a clear agenda in mind. Throughout the fifth race, he kept trying to mount his competitors.
But as names such as “Flatulence” (out of “David’s Bottom” by “Caroline’s Cooking”) would indicate, it’s not a deathly serious affair and while the goats run around in circles, both literally and metaphorically, thick crowds of people milled around the various hospitality tents put up by different corporations gulping down beer, chomping salads, and yes, crunching on the grilled joints of the racers’s brethren.