An Open Letter to Tom Teague

Dear Mr. Teague:

I hope this finds you well, and your good bull Bones healing after his recent treatment for a hip injury. When I learned of this, I naturally wondered if it had affected the outcome of the match-up between him and J.B. Mauney. More than one of my correspondents commented right after the ride that Bones didn’t leap out of the chute into that big vertical drop that so many cowboys seem to have trouble negotiating, and I, for one, can certainly imagine that landing once on an injured joint from a jump like that might discourage an athlete from doing it again. In any event, I hope we will see that adorable baby back on the tour soon.

You are, without question, one of the most successful stock contractors working with the PBR, but Mr. Teague, I have to tell you, I’m not very impressed with very many of the names of your bulls. “Bones” is a decent name, if not as fear-inspiring as one might hope for such an impressive animal. But the development that really has me baffled has been the seemingly endless name changes for the bull that came into the BFTS as I’m a Crook. Since I'm a Gangster is his paternal brother, I thought I'm a Crook fit nicely, and he certainly has the moves to keep him on the tour. When I learned you’d changed his name to Spin Zone, I assumed you must have had your reasons, but then the very next week, who should run into the chute under yet another name? Now presenting Cut Loose, who, on his first out with that moniker, looked like he couldn’t decide what he wanted to do—he bumped the chute, stumbled, clawed at the dirt, and pitched poor Chris Shivers into the gate before he finally managed to scramble away. Could it be, as one of my readers opined, that he’s having an identity crisis?

I sincerely hope that you’ll consider changing that bull’s name back to I’m a Crook, since to my way of thinking neither of his new names has improved on that one, but on the off chance you’re thinking of changing it yet again, I’d like to make some suggestions. I should preface that by warning you that these names, which my readers thought up at my behest several weeks ago, are not your typical bull names, either. I don’t know what your political leanings are, but I suspect it might come as a serious shock to you to learn that many PBR fans are not dyed-in-the-wool Republicans. Actually, it was sort of shock to me, though a happy one—I figured that I was going to have to live my PBR life tiptoeing around the elephant in the room. In plain English, Mr. Teague, many of my readers share my political persuasions, a fact that gradually surfaced during the presidential election. I expect we are probably feeling what Republicans felt when they managed to foist George Bush off on the nation for another four years in 2004—a huge, weight-lifting-off-the-shoulders relief.

What brought me this embarrassment of riches was the appearance a few weeks ago of a bull named Drill, Baby, Drill. Now, you seem like the fatherly type to me, so I won’t hesitate to confide in you that even if I’d ever been crazy enough to think I could put my hand over my eyes and cast my vote for John McCain, he would have lost me when he picked Sarah Palin as his running mate. The woman is dumber than dirt and an embarrassment to every professional and/or thoughtful female in the country, including those who loudly insist that they are not feminists. At some point, I remarked on the blog that I thought we’d sent her packing, so I wasn’t thrilled to be reminded of her at a PBR event, of all places, and I invited my readers to come up with names that so-called “liberals” might choose for their bulls, presuming, of course, that any of us actually had enough millions lying around after we get through taking care of the less fortunate to buy us a piece of a bull. Clearly after eight years of Republican rule in this country, there are a lot more of the less fortunate who need our attention, so I have to surmise that the philosophy governing many members of the GOP is an old prayer I heard often as a child among my supposedly Christian brethren: “Lord, bless me and my wife, my son and his wife, us four, and no more.”

Having now doubtless gotten myself into real trouble with a bunch of lurkers, I have to tell you that my readers really came through for me on this. They have demonstrated yet again that they are thoughtful and astute and amazingly funny. Just take a look—there’s bound to be a name here you might really cotton to.

From Jaye, who resides in your neck of the woods: Yes, We Can; JFK; I Have a Dream; and the Stockyard Queen’s pick, Biden My Time. From Shannon, who will be at the PBR event in Anaheim this weekend: No Preconditions; Hardball; Keith’s Countdown; Maddow Mania; and Shoe Fly, which I just love. From Sheila, who is suffering serious Versus withdrawal in her new state of retirement: Bushwhacked, which is, frankly, the way a lot of us have been feeling for a long damned time now. And from S, she who so wickedly skewered Mr. Flint Rasmussen a few weeks ago, a really good one: Al Gore ’Em.

I hope that you will accept these suggestions in the spirit in which they are offered, which is one of bipartisanship and genuine good will. After all, when we pull on our cowboy boots and tuck in our Rockmount Ranchwear shirts, you can’t sort us Democrats out from the Republicans in the PBR fan pen, and that’s as it should be. I have a feeling that Bones is going to come roaring back from his injury, and the contest between him and Big Tex will be a fight of the first order. So I offer you one last possible name for your identity-challenged bull, the bull formerly known as I’m a Crook. Maybe you should change his name one last time, just in time for the big bull throwdown, in recognition of your honorable opponent, to something offered up by S: Hanging Chad.

Cordially,

The Stockyard Queen