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 bullcaca 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 idiot, make-believe cowboy ride a bucking bull for eight seconds. Everyone wants to watch the dummy 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 imbecillic morons themselves.

Bullriders will tell you that it’s not, “whether you get hurt but when and how badly”. Heck of a motto for life, that one. Imagine an elite Special Ops soldier saying, “It’s not whether you get killed but when.” Bull! 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 get drunk, idiot.”

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 John Wayneabees. You toss him off readily enough and he runs 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 ram a sword through him?

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 bulls might put this girl into the frame of mind for some real performance. 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 case. They detest being dubbed clowns. “This isn’t the rodeo”, they say, “this professional bullriding.” Everyone calls them clowns anyway. Who cares what they think? Now, we’re not discussing 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. What kind of person does that? Yea, they are clowns.

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.