Most of life is bull.
I deal with it every day in California. People screw things up at work, and I have to fix it.
Politics is all bull. Sure, occasionally something actually gets accomplished, but that is policy. Politics is the rodeo.
Giving speeches is bull. I just gave one in Reno, and am giving one today in Las Vegas. The audience will hopefully find the bull palatable.
Yet Las Vegas has allowed me to handle more bull in one weekend than I normally experience in a year or a lifetime.
The edible bull has nearly killed me this weekend. I saw the buffets at the casinos. I came, I saw, I gorged, and I went back for seconds, thirds, and fourths of you count dessert.
I love red meat, but this city was not built for moderation. I topped the meals off with Red Bull.
(Yeah right, it was diet coke, no ice, with lime. I am that cool. Drinking diet soda automatically counteracts the billions of cow parts consumed. The weight gained is most likely due to the starch in the taters.)
My friend Ken knows where the best bull is in this town. In fact, he knows where the best of everything is in this town.
Yet the one type of bull that I was not anticipating was the one found at Cadillac Ranch, just next to the Blue Martini. It was mechanical, and yes, without alcohol (or Red Bull, who is not paying me for this column), a combination of ego and stupidity got me on to that thing. Yep, it was rodeo time.
(For those in California, it is not pronounced “ro-day-oh” like the Harry Belafonte Banana Boat Song. It is “ro-dee-oh.”)
As for grappling with the bull, my hands are still raw.
(Insert disgusting joke on your own time.)
Mechanical bulls and tuxedo jackets don’t mix, but thankfully I was able to toss the tux top to Ken before starting.
When riding a mechanical bull, I reminded myself to stay focused and not showboat. Then I remembered who I was, and showboated. I was going to use one hand to wave my hat in the air, but given that it’s a fedora and not a cowboy hat, tossing it to Ken was the smart move. Tossing it to a hot girl would have been pointless, since I am perfectly happy with the Sacramento Queen. Also, with my luck I would not get it back.
My goal was to not have my bull riding be as nightmarish as a bad sex session, where it ends instantly, and the crowd asks if that is all there is.
(This has happened to every guy except me.)
Anyway, for dramatic effect, I slapped the thing on the hide a couple of times, although it was not nearly as nice as the Sacramento Queen’s hide.
(If her parents are reading this, I am making that part up. The bull’s hide was nice. Oh wait, that might not help matters.)
For those who have seen the Chris Farley movie “Tommy Boy,” I have never stuck my hand up a bull’s hide. I prefer to take the butcher’s word for it.
Anyway, I rode that thing for all it was worth. (If the Sacramento Queen’s parents are reading this part, I am absolutely talking about the mechanical bull. Their daughter is as pure as Snow White in Antarctica.)
Like most of my riding sessions, I got a standing ovation when I was finished. Then again, it was a bar, and most of the people were standing before hand.
The next time I hear Big and Rich sing “Save a horse, ride a cowboy,” I will let somebody else get the glory.
Anyway, with that bucket shot of testosterone out of the way, there is only one way for a 37 year old hebrew alpha male to follow it up.
For my next trick I will be taking a 12 hour nap, followed by one last bite at the bull’s hide.
Yep, another buffet.
As for riding the bull, I am retired.