Lose The Pole and Get a Bull

Words: 1,031

Single in Sandpoint 

Scarlette at the rodeo: Of stripper poles and bulls

     A rodeo is like a strip club for women. It really is, and I say this now with a firm conviction after last weekend. 

     My cousin – who knows how to shoot a rifle and owns functional camouflage clothing – asked me to go with her to a rodeo.  Now I don’t know a thing about rodeos. My cowboy boots have danced all around the clubs in Vegas, but they’ve never once kicked a pile of horse crap. (Basically, I own cowboy boots because Jessica Simpson looked cute in them on “The Dukes of Hazzard,” and I made an impulse purchase. I’m not going to justify myself.) 

     There is also the fact that I don’t love horses. I think they’re cute, but the fact that they routinely mistake fingers for carrots and bite them off makes me nervous. I also feel it’s important to mention that this very cousin has tried to introduce me to her equestrian ways before. 

     When we were about 6-years-old she had two horses; a nice pony named Smurfette, and a scarier version of the black stallion named “Darky” (ouch). We would play “Show Horses” with Smurfette and Darky for hours. (Show Horses was a game that consisted of several of my cousins taking turns leading the horses around in their corral, and afterwards bowing to the judges. The judges consisted of several more of my cousins, my 3-year-old brother and some neighbor kids.) 

     Aside from that, my interaction with animals had always been restricted to my cats; and, as such, being in charge of a horse was daunting to say the least. 

     But I aint no punk and never was; I was assigned to Darky, and I tried to lead him around the corral. I guess I walked too slowly, because, suddenly, the horse became irritated at my pace. About 45 seconds into our walk he bit my neck and swung me to the side, to clear a path. No major injuries, just some bruises that looked like hickies. Thankfully I was 6-years-old, so instead of looking like the town tramp with hickies all over my neck, people just assumed my parents beat me.

     Naturally, you can imagine my trepidation when this very same cousin was trying to lure me back into the position that created my lifelong fear of horses. In fact, all of my cousins (there are six of them) were going to the rodeo. I agreed to go after being assured of the following things:

     1. There would be a beer garden.

     2. They don’t stab the cows (apparently that’s bull fighting not riding, who knew?).

     3. You never, ever have to enter the corral.

     4.  There would be a beer garden.

     Which I guess brings me back to the rodeo-strip club analogy. Like a strip club, a rodeo consists of sets, and there are women that trot around on horses in between them. They are called “rodeo queens,” but, seriously, they’re basically Heidi Fliess in cowgirl garb. 

     And that's not saying anything about cowboys – they're dressed in the most revealing outfits eve, complete with high heels – you can call them cowboy boots all you want, but only three inches and some patent leather separate them from stripper boots. (Further, everybody knows that your butt looks better in tight jeans if you throw some heels on with them, so stop pretending the boots are about function and not sex appeal. I won’t hear it.)

     In a rodeo, the traditional stripper pole is replaced by an angry, live animal. The longer the cowboy rides it, the more excited the crowd gets and the more money he makes. The strip club-ish experience is further enhanced with the amount of alcohol consumed. (I’ve been in a similar situation at the Spearmint Rhino in Boise; and you don’t have to use your imagination much to figure out what kind of place the “Rhino” is.) 

     Now, you may be wondering what my main squeeze thinks about my cowboy infatuation. Well, to his credit, Board Shorts is no more threatened by cowboys than I am of the garden-variety stripper. Sure, both of them are nice to look at, but there’s nothing left to the imagination.  

     What’s more, neither strippers nor cowboys age well. You can dress like a stripper or a cowboy for many years, but you can’t actually perform those occupations lucratively for a lifetime. I’m sorry if I’ve offended any strippers out there.

     So after the rodeo we were feeling naughty, and decided to cheat on the 219 and go to A&P’s. 

     That said, I never go to A&P’s. At the time I didn’t really know why, but now I remember. We were sitting in the bar, neck-deep in cowboys and their groupies. When all of the sudden the song “Don’t Cha” by the Pussycat Dolls came on the jukebox. That song plays about three times a night at A&P’s, and is usually sandwiched between some country songs and maybe a few Skynard tunes. The point is, “Don’t Cha” is an A&P’s staple. 

     I had been singing along happily when I noticed Board Shorts arguing with a shrill little hag at the table next to us. Apparently she didn’t like my singing. She suggested to Board Shorts that I should go to the Long Bridge Grill, where they have karaoke all the time. 

     I would like to address this type of situation with a simple observation: If you have a problem with loud music, intoxication and people engaging in their after-rodeo partying on a Friday night, you probably shouldn’t go to A&P’s. There are places to quietly pretend like you’re having a good time; they’re called wine bars. 

     Seriously, I wish A&P’s could kick people out for being boring and angry, just like wine bars kick people out for being loud and crazy. Just a suggestion.

     Anyway, the night was fun. The cowboys were great entertainment both during and after the rodeo. Seriously, those pants are wickedly indecent. I definitely suggest going to a rodeo for your next bachelorette party or if you just need to pick your spirits up by watching a little beefcake-on-beef action.

     Till our next ride.

     Lose the pole and get a bull,

     Scarlette Quille