So it's Friday evening and I'm lounging on the porch, book in hand, watching the sun set across the lake. Gunsmith Bob shows up and saunters onto the porch.
Bob: "Hey, look! There're goats in the field across the road."
Me: (Not looking up from book,) "Yeah, my landlord's farm project has started. They were there last Friday, too."
B: "They were? Hm. Lets go look at them."
M: "What's to look at? They look like goats, Bob."
B: "Still, we could walk over and look at the goats."
M: "That would involve actually walking."
B: "It won't make your legs fall off, y'know."
M: *sigh* "Okay."
(Insert trudging noises.)
B: "Now these are young goats; only three or five months old or so. When they get bigger, they'll... Oh, isn't that cute."
M: "Wha...? Oh, look. Tippy is a boy goat. Y'know, I'm wondering what horrible wrong turn I took in my life, and when I took it, that resulted in me being almost forty years old, standing in my front yard on a Friday night, cigarette in one hand and beer in the other, watching a goat blow itself. Which circle of Dante's inferno is that? Is that the seventh or eighth circle, with the auto-fellating livestock? I want to go back to the world of ten minutes ago, when everything was happy and wholesome."
Hopefully y'all are tortured with the same mental picture now, because misery loves company.