Seems like only last year that somebody angrily was denouncing the contention that putting a pull-up cinch around the testicles of a bull in order to make him fight the rider more aggressively somehow causes PAIN to the animal.
Ummm… yeah.
And the presumably young lady who was so angry about our reporting of it, stating that somehow she knows for certain that a large mammal could not possibly be in pain, even though the bulls seem to be put into a killing rage by the practice, you know, having his ballocks squeezed.
I guess a bull told her that, calmly and assuredly, “Why no, little lady, doesn’t hurt us at all. We just naturally attack humans and try our level best to stomp their brains out.”
Before any of you yay-hoo goat-ropers start thinking that I’m some kind of Yankee elitist, allow me to point something out. You have shit for brains.
I hear so often (because I grew up in Texas, spent 40 damn years there, also Kansas, New Mexico and Here) that Rodeo is a reflection of ranch-hand work.
Must be reflected in one of those Fun-House mirrors at the associated carnivals, I guess.
My grandpa, his brother and their brother-in-law, Tom Blaylock, did trick riding for rodeos from time to time. One of their legendary accomplishments was when somebody who was very intoxicated challenged them to ride their horses on the Ferris Wheel. They were also very intoxicated and accepted said challenge. Fortunately their horses were smart enough not to get drunk. They also didn’t panic when they got on the ferris wheel.
That’s a Good Thing. Elseways I would have lost my grandpa and two uncles in the same incident long before I was born.
Uncle Tom grew up to become foreman at the Rolling Hills Ranch in Keene, Texas. Ok, in the middle of a trapezoid between Athens, Cleburne, Fort Worth and Keene. Had a Star Route address when they switched over from RFD. He died in 2002. In the summer of ’69 I was on the ranch, 8 years old, Woodstock was goin’ on but you wouldn’t have known it if you were just a kid on a ranch in Johnson County Texas. At the time I had never seen a man with long hair, Bearded men would have shocked livin’ hell out of me.
So I have plenty of first-hand experience with the Bucolic Lifestyle, plenty of truly rednecked close relatives, most of whom had plenty of experience with both Rodeo Cowboying and the Real Job. The two paths split and get further apart, one really really Far Away From Real Ranch Work issue is that of actually attempting to Ride Cattle.
A really important giveaway on that fact is that cattle in general and Bulls in particular just don’t have a docile attitude about people jumping on their backs. Especially if they have a Nutsack Cinch applying pressure to their testicles.
Now, here’s a challenge to all you wannabee cowboys out there… why not, when you’re on that bulls back, do it without the assurance that the clowns and other members of The Show aren’t going to try their level best to save your stupid ass once the inevitable happens and the bull throws you off, then turns around and tries to kill you.
Then, while you’ve got three-quarters of a ton of hate and mean and ugly dancing on your ribcage, maybe the last thing that goes through your pointy little head (besides a hoof) will be “You dumbass, whoever told you that Cattle were meant for ridin’?”
While we’re on the subject of gross and stupid habits, y’all can quit dippin’ snuff too.
Dudes, you project an image of ignorance on all Texans when you do stupid shit like that. Knock it the Hell off.
of course, you could also put a rope or something around your own testicles while you’re doing it, kind of a Native American ‘be one spirit with your mount’ .
Except, of course, as uncle Tom said, (he was Cherokee, from Talequah) riding cattle isn’t an actual Indian tradition. That’s why a loving God in His infinite wisdom and mercy, provided us with Spaniards and their horses.
Also we don’t put ropes on the horses nutsack to make them buck and kick either. Nobody does that except rodeo fools.
Also the notion of ‘breaking” a horse in order to train him only makes you the proud owner of a broken animal. One which you probably wouldn’t be able to ride on a Ferris Wheel if you ever take a wild hair and decide to go for real thrills.