Small town rodeo

So before God invented skateboards, motorcross and Extreme Everything, God invented rodeo.

He prefers small town rodeo. God is not much for sitting high up in binocular-land, top of a grandstand in some name brand cow town.

At a small town rodeo, every seat offers the sweaty, sweetstink, hoof-eye view, better than a pair of golds at The Hanger. You are nose-to-nose with the stock. And there's always the lucky chance they'll come thru the fencing and give you a swift boot to the head. You've been asking for it.

Who was the first guy who said to his bud: "See that one-ton steer? The snarly one? I bet I can ride it." I mean honestly: how bored were they?

But here walk heroes.

The "thud" is no louder, the fractures and risks no greater in Calgary than in Weasel Breath, Ontario. And when the cowdudes get the ladies sweaty wtih their daring deeds, or somebody makes the eight second horn, the sun shines a little higher, a little brighter.

Holy crap. Did you see that? Who wouldn't want to be a cow hand?

Or so it seems this perfect August Sunday afternoon.