I used to raise dairy goats.
So, years ago while working in Boston, I wandered out to Boston Common during lunch, in a jacket and tie. They were holding a Farm Fest sort of thing, right in front of the Ritz Carleton Hotel, and a milking contest was going on — live cows, farmers, hay, grain, milking stools, all of it. I got in line, and pretty soon the snickers began — from the farmers and spectators alike — as in, “Who’s this jerk think he is, entering a milking contest?”
I got to the stool and pail, and took my first squirts directly at the farmers. Next ones I directed into the snickering crowd. Then I beat their teats off and won the damn contest.
It doesn’t happen often.