by James La Bella. @james.la.bella.
NEW YORK, NY - There has been no casting announcement about the goat from Wicked because I ate him and he’s in my belly and I did it because I hate him. I hate him so much. I feel hatred in my heart for him. I gobbled him up like a hungry little gobbler because to me he is my devil. In my world he is worse than the moral equivalent of the Antichrist. He is Hell. Slurp slurp slurp - goodbye goat! When I say “I ated him because I hated him” I say it with my full chest. No regrets. No stopping me from eating that goat. Nobody could stop me. I sped at that goat with such speed. I am a swift force of malice and my spite towards the goat from Wicked made me pour barbecue sauce on his goat hooves and make myself a little goat stew. Lots of spices for the stew! Give it a stir! Piping hot! Rage wrenched open my jaw and poured that stew of hatred down my malicious gullet. Gulp. Gulp. Gulp. Gulping creamy goat stew tastes better when it is made out of petulance. It is even tastier when it is made up of the goat from Wicked. That’s what he gets, that goat! I ate that goat; I ate him. I hated him so much! I was so angry! Gobbling up that goat made me feel alive. It made me smile a smile as big as the yellow brick road. To feel him in my belly… Bliss. I was rageful and full of insidious hatred before I ate the goat from Wicked but then I ate him and now I am free. Eating the goat from Wicked made me whole. Something bad is happening in Oz? I don’t fucking think so. I think I have saved us all. I think we are all now free.