A Pinch of Rodeo
Short stories from a rodeo cowboy, 100% true-98% funny
By Joe R. Nichols
Humorous-Holly, CO. 1980
A warped sense of humor is hilarious to some, not understood at all by most. A rodeo cowboy is considered to be odd for laughing at his buddies when their life is threatened.
Moss was an old bull. Six to eight years old would be toward the end of a bucking bull’s career (which is longer than a ranch herd sire). But this little black muley (no horns) was maybe old enough to vote. I understand, in his younger days, he was seriously mean, never missing an opportunity to mall a fallen cowboy. Apparently, seeing my buddy on his back directly in front of him revived his desire to try and kill somebody. He attacked.
My friend, Spike, bucked off at about the seven-second mark and would have won the rodeo had he lasted one more tick of the clock. Now most bull riders will tell you, if they are going to die in the arena in front of a crowd of people, they would prefer the deed done by a ferocious two thousand pound tiger striped bull with horns as long as your arms. A small pig-eyed Angus just isn’t material for ballads, folk songs, or legends. This added to Spike’s humiliation.
The two rodeo clowns (bullfighters) wore trench coats. One wore a Jed Clampett style hat and carried an umbrella, the other wore a cap with an eighteen-inch bill and had an oversized pink plastic baseball bat. They would usually end up throwing everything they had at the bulls, either trying to get the bull to spin, or distract them from the rider on the ground. This included the trench coats. There was so much debris in the arena after a bull ride, it looked like a tornado went through a trailer park. They had to hurry and gather up all their belongings before they turned the next bull out.
Moss ignored all of their props hurled at him. He had his man down and he wasn’t giving him up for no umbrella, I promise you.
Now, I’ve seen plenty of hookin’s in my time, but this went on forever. The clowns became desperate, pulling on the bull’s ears, pulling on his tail, screaming insults at him, but nothing worked. When you think about it, why would a bull trade a man on his back for one standing up that can run? Makes no sense.
Anyway, the whole time the ancient, cute, curly headed little bull mashed and scooted ole Spike around on the ground, he wasn’t really hurting him. And we all knew this. Naw, hell, Spike’s all right. He just can’t get away from him.
Well, I don’t know how many of you are familiar with the ways of a mature bull, but one thing they do a lot of is snort and beller. This is to show dominance, which they are. Just ask Spike. But the thing is, when they snort and beller, they generally excrete large amounts of snot and slobber. Moss had been snorting and bellering during the entire happening, and Spike seemed to be really absorbent. The incident was funny to me from the beginning, but I lost all composure when Spike finally crawled out from under his captor and made his way out of the arena. What was left of his shirt was completely soaked in slime from the bull’s mouth and nose. His hat, not only destroyed, seeped with the same mucus. His glasses were broke and sat crooked on the tip of his nose. He had so much white foam on his head it dripped off his ear lobes. It looked like someone rubbed a jar of mayonnaise in his hair.
I don’t know why he got so mad at me for laughing at him. He got even madder on the way home when I periodically recalled the sight of him doused in white slobber and mostly clear snot.
I reckon he ain’t got no sense of humor.
Wordsmith Six 