There were many cows. Correction, steers. And Union sympathizers. Several groups were meeting in one of the buildings nearby, talking about strike options. The only strike options that should have been discussed were how to take out the commie pinkos in one go. Smart bomb, through the front door. There go a few more libs.
We also saw real cowboys. As it turns out, they look exactly like your run of the mill country boys. Which makes me wonder...if bumpkins' ancestors were cool people that lived rough, shot up the nights, drank, gambled, chased women...how could rednecks make the same actions look so unappealing today? It must be the Camaro. Not as cool as a horse.
This was some fine quality time, hanging out with Uncle Cole, Aunt Rachel, Grandpa Dyson, and several thousand other tejanos.
We even cut the fool with this clever cowboy cutout. It was like looking into the future for me. A future where I enjoy sunsets, bowlegs, the smell of horse poo, beans in a tin cup, and Texican whores. (Oh, is that too crass? Guess you never read Lonesome Dove.)
Note how brutish and ruggedly handsome I look. I must get myself a few of these cutouts, to see my alternate future selves. I'm thinking I'll need a samurai, a mercenary, a wrestler, an international terrorism financier, an arms trader, a despot, a pimp, a ninja, an emperor, and an animal trainer (Monkeys. Always monkeys.). I can base my life choices off of what looks best on the B.
Every kid should have to do this, so they can see their future selves. Then their parents can have candid conversations with them.
"Like eating paste, Jimmy? Then take a look at this Moron cutout. Note the mullet, the NASCAR t-shirt, and the tattoo of an eagle eating a scorpion while carrying a pretty lady on it's back. Enjoy your future, hotshot."
The Waakabee is pooped. All those steers. All those horses. The sweet smell of their crap. I (heart) Texas. Siesta time.
That is all...
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