Confession: rodeo was a blast. Admittedly, praying to God beforehand was strange, and the announcer’s insistence on supporting the troops grew old. (Are 2007’s last-place finishers in Baghdad right now?) But by and large I found myself riveted.
Best of all were the Indian relay races:
…in which half-naked Native Americans ride bareback, change horses three times and race in a full gallop to the finish line. Yes: the cowboys wrestle farm animals, while the Indians perform stunning feats of athleticism. Hmm. Methinks if it weren’t for those smallpox blankets, the west couldn’t possibly have been ”won.”
The roping events were entertaining, too, if not entirely PETA-friendly. I doubt that group even bothers with membership drives between the east and west coasts. Telling a rancher his family business isn’t “nice” means you’re willing to spray paint future animal-rights messages from your wheelchair–after the nice rancher snaps your nice little neck.
The barrel races were great fun: mainly because the chicks kept knocking the barrels over and I amused myself by pretending they would cry about it later on in the stables, then comfort each other at a big pajama party, complete with curlers and pillow fights. Even now, I’m convinced that’s exactly what went down after the klieg lights cut out.
All things considered, the rodeo was fantastic until the bull riders came out. And kept falling off the damn bulls.
Now, you won’t catch me going near a bull for any percentage of eight seconds. But, see, I’m not a bull-rider. As the capper of the evening, their performances left me deflated. Only two managed to stay on for the full eight seconds.
Perhaps the rest of them should join the war effort. Or crash the pajama party. Or pray to God for better luck next time.
Or wrap themselves up in blankets they get as gifts from the Indians.
Me, I’ll be up in the stands again next year. Wishing I was a chiropractor.
You do know that PETA stands for “People who Eat Tasty Animals”? This per a local radio personality.
My favorite ad in a long time: “If we’re not supposed to eat animals, then how come they’re made out of meat?”
Back in the day, the rodeo wasn’t PRCA, the contestants were local folk who did the usual events and lots of other, more crazy things. Like milking a wild cow into a Coke bottle. Or saddling a wild horse and trying to ride this buckin’, snortin’ whirlwind a complete lap around the track. Today’s relay races are sedate compared to this craziness. The performances took place during the day and I went to every one I could. This had little to do with my love of rodeo and everything to do with my love of drinking beer. I played a bugle in the Legion’s drum and bugle corps and we would march the grand entry at each rodeo. My high school buddies and I quickly learned the guys hauling around the beer buckets would sell us ‘Ice Cold Beer!’, if we wore those blazing hot wool, faux Custer’s 7th cavalry uniforms in the stands! I remember little about those rodeos; I do recall they were hot and usually drunk and stupid out. Fortunately, the only wild ridin’ we did was on the way home. The second best part: The competitors weren’t pros; there was a good chance you knew who they were, where they worked and rode, who they married and divorced, when they were in and out of jail, and which bar they’d celebrate in after the rodeo. They were local color and culture, they hung around when it was over, instead of loading up the big trailers and haulin’ their diesel-belching asses to the next one ‘on the circuit’. They may not have been as genteel as the gallopin’ gallants of Big Horn playing for the Whimsy Cup, but I’d like to think they were genuine.
Don’t knock Goat Roping until you’ve tried it. I rope goats all day long (metaphorically anyway)