Freddie went to the bull-riding event at the Coliseum. He was no great fan of bull riding. Oh, he liked the smells and the danger, the smell of bullshit and the danger of castration, the goofy, little pervert. It was the exact same type of thrill that makes NASCAR popular. No one wants to watch cars drive around and around an oval. Everyone wants to watch cars drive up a wall and explode. No one wants to watch some asshole, make-believe cowboy ride a bucking bull for eight seconds. Eight seconds isn’t a lot of time unless your balls are being slammed around. Everyone wants to watch the dumbass go flying off and have the bull gore him. The bloodier the better. This isn’t about Freddie and his asinine entertainment. It’s about the imbecilic morons themselves.

Bullriders will tell you that it’s not, “whether you get hurt but when and how badly”. Hell of a motto for life, that one. Imagine an elite Special Ops soldier saying, “It’s not whether you get killed but when.” Bullshit! They say, “It’s not whether you get killed but how many of them get killed. Me? I want to go home alive, and with everything I came over here with, pop a Bud and a woman, dumbass.”

The riders also say, “Ya mostly get hurt when the bull is in a bad mood.”

Yea. Think about that one. A pseudo-cowboy jumps on your back and they turn you loose in front of a crowd of yodeling, moronic John Wayneabees. You toss him off readily enough and he runs like hell for the fence so he can climb over it to evade you. You watch him getting up and then remember that you have swords growing out of your head. What would your mood be and what would you do? Swords growing out of your head. As the King of the West tries to get over the wall, wouldn’t you like to cram a sword up his ass and do a victory trot around the arena?

The cowgirls follow the boys around the circuit. It’s free rooms, free food and free drinks for occasional sex. With some of the bullriders, it’s free food and free drinks and no sex, due to special injuries. The girls don’t get too worn out since they don’t have to put out for the hands or the clowns, just the riders. The riders aren’t that much of a strain. They usually last as long in bed as they do on the bull. Then the gal had the rest of the night to watch tv. The sex was better on tv.

One of the tanked riders took a babe down to the pens. The riders and the bulls all hit the road together on the circuit. This rider thought that the massive, snorting, bucking, stinking bulls might put this girl into the frame of mind for some real performance. Like snortin' and buckin'. Why the stink of the pens would be a turn on didn't occur to him, because he was certainly had a case of the hots for her. It occurred to her that, maybe, this cowboy smelled the same way. Damn! Going to have to breathe through my mouth with this guy. That or upchuck on him. If that happens, I hope it's right as he comes. The rider hoped she might be like the bull trying to heave him off. Something seems out of order right there. He stood there looking at the bulls, telling her how mean they were and then he spit his tobacco juice at one of them through the fence. Some of it hit the bull, some hit the fence and splattered the girl and some got on the rider. That probably got the girl as sizzling as a fire that burned out three days ago. It pissed the bull off and he’d keep it in mind it the next time he threw this jackass off.

The clowns are a sad, sad case. They detest being called clowns. “This isn’t the rodeo”, they say, “this professional bullriding.” Everyone calls them clowns anyway. Who cares what a clown thinks? Now, we’re not talking about Clarabelle and Howdy Doody here. We’re not even talking Zippy and who knows what Zippy is?. We’re talking about some damned dimwit distracting a pissed off bull. Distracting him so the rider can escape. Distracting him by getting his focus away from the rider and on to him. Putting his ass on the line for an imbecile. What the Hell kind of person does that? Yea, they are clowns.

They certainly don’t do it for the money. They get paid chip-change at best. After their expenses, and beer, they can’t even pay for a cheap hooker. They aren’t getting any scot-free so where’s that leave them? No woman and a pissed off bull, that’s where. There’s a great goal in life. Sort of wanting to be a monk with a death wish.

Then there’s the hands. They do exactly what they do at home, for the same money but like the clowns, no lovin’. The camp followers won’t even talk to them and the local broads won’t come near them; the smell, you know. The hands stay pretty much drunk most of the time. When a rider gets thrown, they don’t even react. They don’t care about the rider, just the bull.

"Hope thet thar bull didn' strain hisself too much".

That’s it. The guys and gals of the professional bullriding. There are guys who want to ride bulls, risking their lives and, more importantly, their balls for a little money and a little glory. Women who don’t know if their guy will be their guy or just a friend. Clowns that aren’t funny or happy. Hands that travel around doing the same things they could do at home except get some lovin’. What a way to live, eh?

Oh, and Freddie? He got tanked, jumped over the fence and got gored by a bull. He lost his spleen but he was happy. He felt like he was one of them, the idiot asshole.