Ammo Grrrll declares that that this is NOT MY FIRST RODEO. It’s not the first time she has made a joke at my expense either. She writes:
Oh, wait! It WAS! Mr. AG and I recently visited Prescott, AZ, where it is about 15-20 degrees cooler, on average, than back in the Dusty Little Village. Prescott hosts The World’s Oldest Rodeo every summer and we bought tickets to one of the nights. Mr. AG thought we should go two nights in a row, so the second night we could finally say, “This is not my first rodeo,” and be telling the truth.
Anyway, I loved it. And what’s not to love? Pageantry, patriotism, and pathetically-unhealthy snacks! Plus prayer. The entire Clinger trifecta. We were experiencing a dangerous wildfire in the very near vicinity and the whole crowd bowed to pray for the firefighters.
Rodeo is clearly a family event. There were hordes of young children there, sporting hats and boots and one adorable little fellow, maybe three years old, holding Daddy’s hand and wearing a t-shirt that said, “Not my first rodeo.”
There were many stands and booths with clothing on offer sporting such sentiments as “Cowgirls don’t cry. They reload.” The parking lot was a Sea of Silverados with nary an “I’m With HER” bumper sticker in sight. Which certainly set it apart from the Minneapolis airport or even the Trader Joe’s across the street from our hotel.
Now I love Trader Joe’s. They stood firm against the BDS Jew-hating slimebuckets picketing Trader Joe’s for the crime of selling Israeli feta cheese. God Bless ‘Em. (I buy a pound a week to support Israel and need a second Feta Fridge…) But the parking lot is a hilarious tribute to Virtue Signaling: “I am a vegetarian and I vote.” “I’m already against the next war.” “Love Trumps Hate.” And so forth. When I shop there, I delight in wearing my C2 Tactical shirt with the crossed pistols and skull on the back. Nothing says “feminine” to me like a skull, although on the shirt, the skull is atop a bed of roses, which I think makes all the difference.
Meanwhile, back to the rodeo. I was somewhat surprised – though I shouldn’t have been – to note that the great majority of the rodeo contestants in all the events were on the smaller side. They tended to be slender, ridiculously athletic, and looked strong as hell. All of which would serve them well when roping steers, jumping on and off horses, and trying to stay on a bucking bronco or Raging Bull. There was a certain swagger to the stars, a kind of vibrant “toxic masculinity” so hated by the leftists’ womyns. Toxic masculinity is my very favorite kind of masculinity, if only because it annoys the feminists so much.
The incredibly interesting and informative rodeo program explained that most rodeo events flowed naturally from the jobs cowboys did every day. Bull riding being the glaring exception and so exciting that it is saved for the closing act. My late Uncle George was a veterinarian in South Dakota who was gored three times in his career. He had a lot of respect for bulls.
You do have to wonder about the mental state of the first guy who decided, “What the hell, I think I’m gonna just get on this dangerous thousand-pound animal with horns, spur him in the side, put one hand in the air, and see what happens.” No contestant clung to the bull for dear life with his second hand, which I thought would be a tough instinct to overcome, and not a single rider screamed, “For God’s Sake, someone HELP ME!” when the gate opened. I became the Designated Screamer for the event, so soon we had plenty of room around us in the crowded bleachers.
Anybody who pretends to believe that males do not have some risk-taking gene absent in most females has never watched little boys at play. There’s a reason, besides lack of opportunity, that two bicycle shop ladies named Orvilla and Wilhelmina Wright didn’t become the first to fly. Not that Amelia Earhart was a slouch, wherever she may be. Plenty of skill and guts, but evidently with my unfortunate sense of direction. (I always liked to think she was just on a Caribbean island somewhere, living it up with a new boyfriend.)
Both the audience and the stars of the rodeo were a nice multi-culti mix, which, despite the reflexive slanders about us, is very natural here in Deplorable-Land. Not so many African-Americans, but plenty of Native Americans and Mexicans.
One of the most heavily-cheered acts was a gentleman named Tomas Garcilazo, whose family for many generations has learned the skill of “La Charreria.” It is a combination of rope artistry and horseback riding which culminates in his standing up on the saddle doing impossible things with a 30 foot rope while his beautiful horse stands stock still. The program listed among his credits that he had performed at Disney’s Wild West Show in Paris, France, and the Buffalo Bill Wild West Show touring Europe. Not even to mention the White House. Maybe Bill and Hillary rented out the Lincoln Bedroom to his horse; the program wasn’t specific.
One of my favorite events was the Ladies’ Barrel Racing. Fit, fast, and beautifully-costumed ladies ride like the wind around 3 barrels and then on the straightaway in a rigorously-timed event. Last year’s World Champion, Mary Burger, has career earnings over $600,000. Go, Mary! And I bet that doesn’t count endorsement money. I hear there’s a job opening for a spokesgal for the Squatty Potty.
There was a veteran emcee whose job it was to fill dead air every second. He told a funny joke which I will include here for free. He used his colleagues in the joke, and so will I.
John, Paul and Scott are (God Forbid!) in an unfortunate accident and go to Heaven. They are surprised to learn that in Heaven they will be assigned new wives. John’s new wife is shockingly unattractive and he asks why. “Well,” says St. Peter, “once you cheated on your taxes.” Paul steps up and his new wife makes John’s look like Marilyn Monroe. Turns out one time he also cheated on his taxes. Scott is thrilled to find he has been assigned a beautiful, shapely blonde! When he asks St. Peter how he got so lucky, Pete says, “She cheated on her taxes.”