ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (08-23-18)
Yesterday evening I worked up quite a thirst and had a hankering to visit the local watering hole. There's a saloon right up Route 22 that has a country feel to it, so I saddled up and went on over. The first thing I do when I walk into a place like that is look up and check out the chandeliers. Oddly enough, this place has several, but the kind I'm looking for is a large, metal one about four to six feet in diameter. That way, if a bunch of rustlers waltz in and start a brawl, I shoot the chandelier down with my six-gun and it falls right on top of four of them, incapacitating them for the remainder of the fight. If you thought I was going to work myself into the fray, I'm a frayed not- I have learned one or two things over the years.
If I was born way back in yonder times, I would have won the West quicker than a greased hog at a librarian's convention. How? I would have invented the seven-gun. That's right, it holds seven bullets, and when the guy with the black hat shoots you six times, and you shoot him six times, he's busy reloading while you have an extra shot, and BOOM. He's pushing up daffodils faster than a racehorse in a toupee factory.
They have a mechanical bull at this place who goes by the name of Ferdinand. It reminded me of the time I went to Gilley's in Dallas, Texas, where I strolled up to that infamous bogus bovine with a cow chip on my shoulder. Sitting atop of the saddle at the time was a one year-old baby, taking a leisurely ride as his dad held him in place. After he was done, I mounted the fearsome beast, one hand on the rein and one arm akimbo. I whispered to the operator to set the speed one notch slower than the baby, and called over to my wife to set the camera shutter to slow, so I would look blurry in the photographs, as if I was flailing away even more hopelessly than I actually was.
The minute I got on top of the bull I was busy trying to come up with an exit strategy, which took some of my concentration away from holding on to the rope. I should have packed a parachute, or brought a bungee cord, or worn two pairs of pants at least. I've had a couple knee surgeries, and I had a feeling this thing could pitch me over near the rest rooms before I even had a chance to deploy my parachute. The operator was wearing a ten-gallon hat and a twenty-gallon smirk, and I knew that reasoning, threats or even begging would be useless. It seemed like it took forever, but I was thrown off the bucking thing faster than a wet hen at a pajama party. I had a screwdriver in the car and I felt like going back there and disassembling its servo motor.
Here they have mostly country music playing, and although I assume it was from this country, no one specified. Country music consists of songs about, in no particular order, dogs, beer, women, trucks, The South and guns. There are no songs about cats, "The Bachelor," gluten-free dining or gardening. In case you've been out of the country for a while, there are all different kinds of country music now, so I'll catch you up to speed. In addition to traditional country, there is alternative country, where the dog is a Bichon Frise, the beer is an IPO and the women are lesbians. There is also country blues, where the dog is a Basset Hound, the beer store is closed and the women are unhappy in their relationships. Outlaw country has songs where the dog is an unleashed Pit Bull, the beer is stolen and the women are recent parolees.
The shadows were starting to lengthen, a shot of whiskey had emboldened the crowd, and a couple of dauntless damsels decided to try their luck on Ferdinand. If you've ever seen the movie "Urban Cowboy," you'll remember sultry Debra Winger making moves on top of that mechanical bull that would make you think that they had been dating exclusively. But reality is a different animal, and the first cowgirl got the blues right away when, try as she might, she failed to mount the faux furry brute. Her friend wasn't in much better shape but she was quite a comely lass, and the operator thought she might be good for business. I don't even think he turned the thing on, and she eventually slid off the back and tipped the bull, thinking that her Uber had arrived.
It was time for last call quicker than a pickle poacher in a pumpkin patch. I went to settle my tab but it was so dark I could hardly see the bill. "I know," said the bartender, "Some idiot shot down the chandelier."
Yesterday evening I worked up quite a thirst and had a hankering to visit the local watering hole. There's a saloon right up Route 22 that has a country feel to it, so I saddled up and went on over. The first thing I do when I walk into a place like that is look up and check out the chandeliers. Oddly enough, this place has several, but the kind I'm looking for is a large, metal one about four to six feet in diameter. That way, if a bunch of rustlers waltz in and start a brawl, I shoot the chandelier down with my six-gun and it falls right on top of four of them, incapacitating them for the remainder of the fight. If you thought I was going to work myself into the fray, I'm a frayed not- I have learned one or two things over the years.
If I was born way back in yonder times, I would have won the West quicker than a greased hog at a librarian's convention. How? I would have invented the seven-gun. That's right, it holds seven bullets, and when the guy with the black hat shoots you six times, and you shoot him six times, he's busy reloading while you have an extra shot, and BOOM. He's pushing up daffodils faster than a racehorse in a toupee factory.
They have a mechanical bull at this place who goes by the name of Ferdinand. It reminded me of the time I went to Gilley's in Dallas, Texas, where I strolled up to that infamous bogus bovine with a cow chip on my shoulder. Sitting atop of the saddle at the time was a one year-old baby, taking a leisurely ride as his dad held him in place. After he was done, I mounted the fearsome beast, one hand on the rein and one arm akimbo. I whispered to the operator to set the speed one notch slower than the baby, and called over to my wife to set the camera shutter to slow, so I would look blurry in the photographs, as if I was flailing away even more hopelessly than I actually was.
The minute I got on top of the bull I was busy trying to come up with an exit strategy, which took some of my concentration away from holding on to the rope. I should have packed a parachute, or brought a bungee cord, or worn two pairs of pants at least. I've had a couple knee surgeries, and I had a feeling this thing could pitch me over near the rest rooms before I even had a chance to deploy my parachute. The operator was wearing a ten-gallon hat and a twenty-gallon smirk, and I knew that reasoning, threats or even begging would be useless. It seemed like it took forever, but I was thrown off the bucking thing faster than a wet hen at a pajama party. I had a screwdriver in the car and I felt like going back there and disassembling its servo motor.
Here they have mostly country music playing, and although I assume it was from this country, no one specified. Country music consists of songs about, in no particular order, dogs, beer, women, trucks, The South and guns. There are no songs about cats, "The Bachelor," gluten-free dining or gardening. In case you've been out of the country for a while, there are all different kinds of country music now, so I'll catch you up to speed. In addition to traditional country, there is alternative country, where the dog is a Bichon Frise, the beer is an IPO and the women are lesbians. There is also country blues, where the dog is a Basset Hound, the beer store is closed and the women are unhappy in their relationships. Outlaw country has songs where the dog is an unleashed Pit Bull, the beer is stolen and the women are recent parolees.
The shadows were starting to lengthen, a shot of whiskey had emboldened the crowd, and a couple of dauntless damsels decided to try their luck on Ferdinand. If you've ever seen the movie "Urban Cowboy," you'll remember sultry Debra Winger making moves on top of that mechanical bull that would make you think that they had been dating exclusively. But reality is a different animal, and the first cowgirl got the blues right away when, try as she might, she failed to mount the faux furry brute. Her friend wasn't in much better shape but she was quite a comely lass, and the operator thought she might be good for business. I don't even think he turned the thing on, and she eventually slid off the back and tipped the bull, thinking that her Uber had arrived.
It was time for last call quicker than a pickle poacher in a pumpkin patch. I went to settle my tab but it was so dark I could hardly see the bill. "I know," said the bartender, "Some idiot shot down the chandelier."
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