On Profanity

While we are still on hiatus (otherwise known as a starvation diet) till the PBR season officially cranks up at the end of December, I have been thinking about some of the little rituals I practice while the season is in full swing, and I am obliged to admit that a few of them are not very, er, gentlemanly. They include such practices as swigging Jack Daniels straight out of the bottle—that’s for the easy times, like when 90 percent of the boys are hitting the dirt and the ones who ride look like they could stick to the back of a lightning bolt. If things aren’t going so well, it’s Bombay Sapphire martinis, very dry and cold, loaded with big, fat, juicy olives, and let me tell you, there’s nothing like drinking gin and watching the bulls buck to get you nearly hallucinatory in very short order.

But the most embarrassing ritual is also the most audible. Though we intend to keep the language on this blog G-rated (not making any promises about the subjects), I have to confess that my considerable religious upbringing was not powerful enough to keep me from swearing like a sailor while I’m watching the PBR. Barn Cat contends that I swear like a sailor most of the time, but he certainly agrees that I am at my worst when bull riding is on the tube. Fortunately for him (and those seated near me), I can curb this impulse when we go to a live PBR event, but at home, I pretty much let it rip.

Doubtless this annoys the dickens out of anyone within earshot, particularly since, as Barn Cat scrupulously points out, I am screaming at the television and neither the boys nor the bulls pay the slightest attention to my suggestions. But after all, how else can I participate? I’m sure the neighbors wonder what is going on in here, weekend after weekend, as they hear me shriek, “OH!!!!! ****!!!!! Throw him off!!!!! Throw the ******* off!!! YES!!!” But do I complain about their kid practicing the violin, or the broad across the park who sings OPERA for TWO HOURS every day? I do not.

One summer Sunday, Barn Cat came indoors and ordered me to pipe down because he was afraid the neighbors would think we were doing bondage. Well, weren’t we at least witnessing it? If tying your hand down to the back of a 2,000 pound animal who is actively planning to sling you up over his head and plant you face first in the dirt isn’t bondage, then you tell me what is. After all, in this sport, the bull**** is a fact of life, and when you get up off the ground, you well may have a mouthful of it.