Jeremy, from Port Charlotte, Scotland (on the island of Islay, the southernmost of the Hebrides) sent word yesterday from the Velo Club d’Ardbeg.
He offered, “I would happily make you Laird of Goats if you were to send a handful of stickers to our wee club,” adding that “we have loads of wild Goats that were left here by the Vikings originally.”
Talk about an awesome title. “Laird of Goats” looks GREAT on my resume.
In fact, Zandra suggests that we go to Scotland, and “have you sit on a throne and then take a pic of you surrounded by goats all bowing down.”
I’d be like, HEAR YE, GOATS, FOR I AM THE LAIRD OF GOATS. I SHALL BARBECUE EVERY LAST ONE OF YOU AND/OR RENDER YOUR MILK INTO DELICIOUS CHEESE, AND I WILL REJOICE IN YOUR ABSURD FURRINESS AND SILLY HORNS. THAT IS ALL, FOR I AM A BUSY MAN ATTENDING TO MUCH GOAT BUSINESS.
Here’s hoping for more international diplomatic arrangements.