In Memoriam

Last week, we all received the news of the passing of PBR superstar Little Yellow Jacket. It had been a while since I had heard anything about the three-time bull of the year, and I simply imagined he was relaxing in a pasture somewhere between Tom Teague’s place in North Carolina and the Berger Bucking Bulls HQ in Mandan, North Dakota. Lots of stud service, I figured. And I am sure that was true in both locations and beyond via straw sales. So I was taken by surprise when I heard that my old pal from my favorite TV show had crossed over the Great Divide, as we say out here in Montana.

The news took instantly me back to the glassed-in back porch of our house in East Los Angeles. It was a typically overly warm summer evening (we did not have air conditioning), and I was flipping through the cable listings when I ran across Professional Bull Riding. “Bull riding, eh?” I thought, “Could be worth a look.” This was in 2001, and Little Yellow Jacket was just a little shaver, although still plenty formidable. I took to watching bull riding right away. I knew a quite a bit about rodeo, and as the curator of a major collection at one of the world’s greatest museums of Western American culture, I knew ALL about cowboy traditions and cowboyness. It was the bulls that really grabbed me, though. I was, and still am, just fascinated by those amazing, athletic animals.

Inevitably, my lovely Stockyard Queen stepped out onto the porch, most likely with a cold beer in her hand. “Uh, what is this, a rodeo?” she asked. “Professional bull riding! ‘This ain't no RODEO!’” I responded, parroting the proud pronouncement that I had only heard for the first time myself a few minutes before. “Check out this bull action!” And she did. I was surprised that she gravitated to the bulls right away, just as I had, and it was not long after that we were hooked.

There were giants in the land in those days—literally. Blueberry Wine and Mossy Oak Mudslinger, Moody Blues and Dillinger. We loved those bulls and got to know them by their personalities (as well as you can ever know a TV star’s personality). One of those bulls rapidly became our favorite, however: Little Yellow Jacket. We could tell right away that he was something special.

For the two of us, he was the ambassador of the PBR. When we talked to our colleagues at work or to our family or friends about our new obsession with bull riding—and rooting for the bulls—they usually gave us a selection of cock-eyed and skeptical looks. “Bulls? Really? ” “Yes, REALLY!” we told them, “There’s this bull named Little Yellow Jacket and he is so smart, so well trained, that he busts out of the chute, does his job of throwing a cowboy, and then stops dead still right there in the arena and looks straight at the crowd. He’s showing off! He’s clearly saying ‘I’m the big daddy in this house and don’t you forget it!’”

Our friends mostly thought we were crazy, but they did like the stories we continued to tell them about Little Yellow Jacket’s ongoing triumphs. When he won Bull of the Year in 2002, we told everyone, “See, I told you that bull had promise.” One year, one of our friends even made us a Little Yellow Jacket Christmas ornament that we always hang proudly on our tree.

Over the years, we have come to appreciate the amazing feats of the PBR’s human competitors as well. We still miss Justin McKee in the PBR announcer’s chair (remember that guy?), and we are happy that we can say we saw Adriano win this second PBR championship back in 2001.

More than anything else about our 10 years as PBR fans, however, we will always remember Little Yellow Jacket. His crooked horn, his incredible strength, and most of all his endearing sense of style in the arena made him a symbol of everything that is right about Professional Bull Riding. Even now, in 2011, when the Queen and I sit in front of our much-larger TV in the living room of our air-conditioned house in Montana, when we see a particularly spectacular bull performance, there’s a good chance that one of us will be thinking “Yep, that reminds me of that yellow bull from Mandan, good ol’ Little Yellow Jacket.”

Happy trails, Pardner!

I'm Mad as Hell

Dear friends, in the weeks since Pearl de Veres posted her spot-on analysis of the PBR drug controversy, we have continued to see reports about it that have ranged from thoughtful commentary to outright rumor to completely crazy conspiracy theories that have just about made our heads spin around backward.

Despite the temptation to share the wildest (and naturally, the least trustworthy), however, I want to direct your attention to two pieces that were published in the Stephensville Empire-Tribune. The first, which appeared on August 20, describes the drug-testing process at the Thackerville event. The second, published a week later, discusses the fallout from the discovery that one of the bulls tested positive for steroids there, a full six weeks after PBR officials warned the stock contractors that they would be testing all competing bulls in Thackerville.

I am recommending these two articles to you not only because they are authoritative and comprehensive, but also, and most damning, because we have still not heard one official word in response from the PBR about this frightening mess. Let me repeat that: Not. One. Word. I have been looking at the website almost constantly since this whole thing raised its ugly head, and there has not been one word posted about it. I have even, I am sorry to state, watched PBR Now on the Real F****** Dumb TV network, hoping every week that some fan will slip past the gorgons manning the phones and ask a question, any question, on the subject. Read my lips, people: Not. One. Word.

At this point, the only people we have semi-officially heard from are being quoted in the Stephensville newspaper--the PBR's general counsel, a couple of vets involved in the testing, and Ty Murray, who could hardly get away without being questioned because he lives in the same town. None of that is a substitute for a straightforward statement from the PBR brass.

All of this is leading me toward a conclusion I am loathe to reach, one that pisses me off more than just about anything else I can think of. I really do not want to believe that the men who are running the PBR are a bunch of arrogant dudes who really believe all they have to do is lay down the law, and people will stop thinking and talking about this mess. I've got news for you boys--it ain't gonna happen.

The fans of the PBR do not work for the PBR--in fact, we could make a pretty convincing case that the PBR should be working for the fans if it wants to keep them. The people who run the PBR are not our fathers, or our husbands, and they are for damned sure not our bosses. They can't expect us to do what they tell us to just because they apparently think they are gods and we will quail for fear of being struck dead if we question their authority. We don't have to believe that they have our best interests at heart.

In fact, this ridiculous silence only suggests the opposite--they are hiding some even bigger atrocity than we have thus far supposed, or they are covering somebody's ass (possibly several somebodies, possibly several very big somebodies), or worst of all, they are trying to save their own bacon. None of these possibilities bodes well for the sport.

One article on the subject is still to come from the Stephensville Empire-Tribune. I can't say I'm looking forward to it, but it's obvious that’s the only place I can turn for factual information and analysis of the subject. I invite you all to stay tuned.

Mixed Feelings

Friends, I am back, finally, to tell you a little bit about the Stanley Tools and Security Invitational presented by Cooper Tires. Yes, I’ve been remiss, but I hope, given the very important report that the Divine Pearl de Veres posted last week, that you can cut me a little slack on my tardiness. I did not want to post anything before we got that one up, and as I observed before, it took us a while to pin down the information to the point where we felt comfortable (although not happy) about talking about the issue.

Still, you can no doubt appreciate that I went to Billings with mixed feelings. We had a great time there, and weren’t there nearly long enough—over on Saturday and back Sunday after the event—but I felt like a nasty black cloud was hanging over me the entire trip, and that cloud was the idea that someone was drugging bulls. This notion is making me question my love for this sport.

Nevertheless, we enjoyed the trip a lot. Like any event, it had high and low points, and since I am occasionally accused of having nothing good to say, I think I will mix it up a little bit. So here we go:

Plus 1
The Rimrock Arena. A little over a year ago, a tornado (tiny by Midwestern standards) tore the roof off the old arena. They actually had to delay the Billings event for a few months—it’s usually in April—so they could get the building finished, but The Stockyard Queen deems it worth the wait. (Even though it meant that the event happened during the hottest part of the year—a sweltering 90 degrees, with a whopping 15 % humidity! No, I will not be going to Thackerville, or even to an indoor event in Tulsa or San Antone in the middle of the summer. I moved 2,000 miles to get away from that kind of weather, and I won’t be going back to spend my vacation in it for anybody or anything, not even the PBR.)

To begin with, attendees now walk from the parking lot down a nice civilized ramp rather than down the Four Staircases of Death with a few thousand other fans pushing and shoving and stepping on their heels. The arena is bright and clean and cheerful, and the steps down to the seats are wider and not nearly as steep as they used to be. This is a mercy, because we always seem to arrive just as the lights go out and the praying starts. For years, I have had an abiding fear of falling headfirst down the steps in the dark and taking an entire section with me to our rewards. (“I can see it now,” Pearl opined. "‘Dear Lord, we ask you to protect our...’ ‘AAAAAAARGH!’ Half the crowd perishes, but your Adriano boots look awesome while you’re taking them out.”) Fortunately for all involved, a Queen wearing Adriano boots with Cuban heels can now get to her seat without killing anybody or spilling her beer.

The acoustics in the arena are infinitely improved, and our seats were just terrific. We sprang for the most expensive ones, and they were worth every single penny. We were one section up from floor level, about halfway down, and maybe 15 feet out in front of the chutes, so we could see everything, whether we wanted to or not.

And for once, we were not in the middle of Skank City, although on Sunday afternoon we did see a pair of prospective (prospecting?) buckle bunnies get kicked out of the seats about four rows down from us, where they apparently had sneaked in on the premise that the folks who bought the seats wouldn’t show up. Sorry, girls! Instead, we sat on Saturday between two nice couples, and on Sunday next to a rancher from Glendive. (“You came quite a ways,” I said to him. “Not really,” he said. “It’s only about 75 miles farther than you came.” For those not familiar with driving customs in Montana, that means he drove about 15 minutes longer than we did.)

Minus 1 and 2
Running late. Honestly, folks, in our everyday lives, Montana Barn Cat and I are NEVER late, so it’s a mystery to me why we can’t seem to get out of Dodge and over to Billings in any kind of decent order once a year. First off, one of us actually had to work on Saturday morning, and the other took full advantage of the situation to sleep in later than s/he should have. Next, we had to race around getting ready for the dog sitter, since we quake in our Adriano boots at the thought that she may become so disgusted by our slovenly ways someday that she will decline to sit for these crazy mutts ever again, and just forget it. Then, about the time we got past Livingston on I-90, one of us discovered that s/he had forgotten his/her wallet, which meant we had to turn back to get it. To make a long and discouraging story short, we got into Billings about four hours later than we’d planned to, and then one of us misread the starting time on the tickets, with the result that we got there almost half an hour after the event started on Saturday.

Which wasn’t, in hindsight, all bad—we missed out on the praying and the militaristic rhapsodizing and the swearing-in ceremony, and you all know how I feel about that stuff. Speaking of which . . . .

The swearing-in ceremony on Sunday. As you know, I always grit my teeth through this, because I think it adds an unseemly carnival-like atmosphere to a very serious undertaking. I suppose that Major Whosis, who marched the recruits into the arena on Sunday, meant well, but when he prefaced administering the oath with a homily about the troops who had been killed the day before in that chopper crash in Afghanistan by saying, “I guarantee you that all of these young people—”

Folks, my heart nearly stopped. I was absolutely sure he was going to say “are going to get shot” or “will die in the service of their country” or some equally encouraging thing. Fortunately, he managed to pull back from that dire perch and get on with the show, but if I had been one of those kids standing in formation in front of him, I would have run screaming for the exit.

Plus 2
Dinner with friends at Bin 119. I highly recommend this restaurant—they have a brief but imaginative menu, a wonderful wine list, and a beautiful, soothing dining room. It didn’t hurt that our waiter looked a lot like Ryan Dirteater, either. I tipped him accordingly.

Minus 3
You Shook Me All Night Long. Speaking of war, I am declaring same on this hideous piece of ’80s tripe. I cannot for the life of me figure out how the PBR can bill itself as family entertainment and then let Flint dance and prance to this tacky piece of crap. If I took a kid to a PBR event, and that kid asked me what “She told me to come but I was already there” meant, you can take it to the bank that I would be dialing up Mr. Rassmussen and making him explain it to said kid. And believe me—if I had to, I could find him.

Plus 3
The Crowne Plaza. I really cannot explain why I am so enthralled with this hotel—it’s certainly not the San Francisco Ritz Carlton. But it’s always quiet (no mean feat with a few hundred cowboys and fans running around loose in it), the rooms are beautiful, the bed linens are sumptuous, and the view from the 15th floor to the south, toward Wyoming, is one of the most spectacular city/landscapes I’ve ever seen. And I have seen several, believe me, in way bigger, more exotic places. Add to that the extraordinarily helpful staff and the cozy little lobby bar, where you can sit at the back and see all the bull riders, stock contractors, and TV types you ever wanted to see (and some you didn’t) within shouting distance, and you’ve got a pretty much perfect experience. Even if, as Montana Barn Cat observed, the drinks are so expensive that you feel like you’re buying rounds at the airport. (At one point, I texted Kris DiLorenzo, advising her that I was sitting behind her favorite commentator and asking if she wanted me to go spill a drink on him. Fortunately for both of us, she didn’t reply in time for me to take appropriate action. We’re good friends, but I doubt that she would have bailed me out.)

Plus 4
Having breakfast on Sunday with friends who drove 240 miles for that express purpose. This is Montana, folks, where people routinely drive 300 miles to buy groceries, eat in a restaurant, and go to a dance. It’s all in a day’s work out here.

Minus 4—and possibly 5 and 6
The bulls. Given that I was already anxious about the possibility that some of the animal athletes were being drugged, you can imagine how happy I was to discover that the bull pen, to put it mildly, sucked. I couldn’t help but wonder if maybe some bulls who otherwise would have been there had been pulled from competition because their owners couldn’t get them clean enough fast enough to get past the drug testing. And since I’m only in this for the bulls, you can doubtless tell where this may be leading.

Plus 5
Getting away for a day. Sometimes you just have to bite the bullet and get out of town to really relax. It’s tough duty, but I will not shirk it.

The Weird and the Unfortunate
Where is everybody? We arrived late to the event on Saturday and still snagged a prime parking spot, and furthermore got out the parking lot in a record 20 minutes afterward, because—you guessed it--there were hundreds, possibly thousands, of empty seats. The lower levels were mostly occupied, but the upper ones were mostly vacant. This does not look good, folks.

Speaking of the parking lot: To the jerk who was pissing in said parking lot after the event--maybe if “The Battle of New Orleans” hadn’t been blasting out of the open doors of your jacked-up Dodge Ram, your bad behavior might have gone unnoticed. Yes, I am the woman who deliberately drove around your truck in a big circle, giving you the stink eye the whole time. If looks could kill, you’d be dead now.

To Mr. Chad Berger: Please get rid of that red pseudo bowling shirt you were wearing in the bar on Saturday night. Trust me--it was not a good look on you.

Seeing one of the riders who was in a decent position in the standings in a bar at noon on Sunday, drinking a shot and a beer. We didn’t stay long enough to see if he had another, but he did fall off both bulls later that afternoon, so I don’t think self-medication helped him any.

Seeing a prostitute in the bar on Saturday night. The buckle bunnies were out in force, but the difference was unmistakable. I didn’t see any transactions taking place, but I did wonder whether when the PBR comes to town, all kinds of businesses benefit? (“The mind boggles,” sez Pearl.)

Plus 6
Meeting Valdiron de Oliveria in the hotel lobby. Oh, I already talked about this, didn’t I? I guess you figured out that it was the high point of the trip. I’m going to have to hang onto that memory for a while, for my own good.

Something's Rotten in the State of Colorado?

This is a topic that is both touchy and one that has understandably not received much coverage, and I have waffled on what, if anything, to say about it; hard facts are in short supply, rumors are rampant, and the fall-out has very unpleasant possible ramifications. I am going to avoid the rumors and innuendo as much as possible, but this is a topic that is central to the continuance of our sport.

What is indisputable is that in 2007/2008, the PBR brass loudly trumpeted their new drug testing committee, and proceeded to test bulls over the season for performance enhancing drugs. This historic testing all yielded negative results. Whether this testing continued in any significant way is unclear, but there certainly was a lot less PR about it. Then came Pueblo in 2011.

I will defer to Don and Janelle Kish here, who have posted a letter on their website regarding this matter. And I quote:

As a PRCA and a PBR Stock Contractor and an ABBI Share holder and past president I am embarrassed of the recent findings from the drug testing during the PBR/ABBI Pueblo, Colorado event.

Money and notoriety has led some to a “new way of thinking” they have no regard for the safety, well being and future of the animal athlete. To think a person will cheat or try to win at any cost is alarming to say the least. That makes it a sad time to be a Stock Contractor...

We are very disappointed with the individuals that have enabled the drug use, with no regard for the time, money, effort and wisdom put towards the Bucking Bull Industry.

(See the full letter linked on the page here.)


I will also defer to the UBBI, which has unveiled a new rules in response to the unfolding drama:

UBBI Headquarters (June 15, 2011)–Due to recent developments within the bucking bull competition industry regarding the suspected use of drugs, substances and other agents believed to enhance the performance of bucking bulls, the United Bucking Bulls, Inc has added specific policy and enforcement guidelines to it’s 2011 Rule Book.

(See the full press release here).

To say that this is alarming is an understatement, for any number of reasons. I guess it was naive for any of us to expect that this could never happen, even if the "cowboy way" is supposed to be above cheating. As with any sport in which money is involved and one part of the equation is an animal who can't speak out, someone, somewhere will find a way to take shortcuts, no matter the potential harm to the animal or the industry at large. (This is why we have thoroughbreds who run very fast and have exceptionally poor feet, and the sad racking horses that have been "sored" to get a gross, exaggerated parody of what their natural gait should be.) I don't think that this is a model that any true fan of bull riding would like to see the sport follow. There are of course legitimate veterinarian-recommended reasons to use steroids and other drugs classified as "performance enhancing" on animals, but if any of the rumors are remotely true, the scale means this was not solely legitimate veterinarian-endorsed, health-related use.

The potential harm to the bucking bulls is obvious. To drug a bull into performing beyond its natural capabilities is a short-term strategy at best. And for all those dedicated to improving the genetics of bucking bulls, this can only be seen as a nightmare. Not only are there potential fertility issues with animals who have been doped regularly, there is also the issue that perhaps some of the bulls people chose to use in their breeding programs simply would not have made the cut if performance enhancing drugs had not been used. Now, obviously drugs can't make any bull into a top bull, but for any contractor trying to find the magic blend of genetics to get a good set of bulls, having to worry that a bull might have poor reproductive qualities and not be as great as advertised without performance enhancing drugs? Let the headaches begin.

Part of the reason this has been kept so quiet, I suspect, is of course that the "no publicity is bad publicity" creed doesn't pan out here. This is, quite simply, terribly bad from every possible angle. It is simply appalling that some stock contractors would basically hand extreme activists the ammunition that has the potential to take them, and the entire sport, down. And if that thought is frightening, just consider what could happen if the USDA/FDA became involved. As far as I am aware, these federal bodies make absolutely no distinction between "rodeo" cattle and food cattle. Non-food-grade drugs making their way into the food stream is a gigantic potential problem that could have far-ranging and unpleasant implications.

The testing apparently is continuing, so we will see what this means (will some bulls disappear, or buck/appear differently than before?). But it is just all so monumentally stupid, it blows my mind. I don't know if the PBR dropped the ball on testing, but it seems clear that some contractors decided to take shortcuts. Once one person starts cheating and winning, there is more incentive for others to start cheating to attempt to level the playing field. We have seen this play out in other sports, and it is horrifying to see it start in ours. Drugs are layered upon drugs to fool the testing, and each time the testing is updated, the drugs are updated. I hope the PBR manages to police this in a fair way that protects the stock contractors who want to do things the right way, and of course the bulls, who are half the equation of our sport and should be treated exceptionally well. If not, we, and the sport at large, are in big trouble.

Something is indeed rotten in the state of Colorado. Let us hope that sanity will prevail, for the sake of the bulls, contractors, cowboys, and fans of this sport.

The Stockyard Queen at the NILE

Friends, I have much to tell you about this past weekend's festivities, but before I dive off into much longer (and doubtless occasionally tedious) posts, I just have to tell you this:

The ONLY reason Valdiron won the event was because I shook his hand at the hotel on Saturday. Of course, Montana Barn Cat insists that it's because HE shook Valdiron's hand, but I'm sure he's wrong about that. I mean, I'm magic, right? Nobody in his right mind would deny that.

And we managed it with our customary smoothness--we walked into the lobby, Montana Barn Cat looked right and saw Adriano and I looked left and saw Valdiron, I stopped dead in my tracks, and the Barn Cat plowed right into me. It wasn't quite the Keystone Kops--we didn't fall flat on our faces--but I'm sure that all witnesses were prepared to swear that we were drunk. We were not.

And Valdiron was very, very kind to us when we rushed up to congratulate him on his success thus far. I am really hoping that he continues his winning ways and takes the championship. He will make a fine ambassador for the sport.

That night, as I was drifting off to sleep, I reflected that it was worth everything I've gone through with this blog, all the hassle and expense of traveling to the events, all the anguish and yelling at the tv, all the Jack Daniels and dry martinis consumed in fear and loathing, to have seen the event that evening and to meet that man and shake his hand. I am so glad the bulls and boys are back in town.

If I Ran the PBR . . . . Publicists Needed!

Dear friends, please join me in perusing the Divine Shannon's observations about how the PBR could do a better job of promoting the sport. I look forward to your observations on the subject!

Publicists Needed!

My friend Sonja first mentioned that she was shocked at the riders’ lack of promotion. Once we started talking about it, the ideas started rolling. Keeping in mind that you have to spend money to make money, here are just a few of the things I’d do with the riders if I were in charge.

First: Hire some publicists to work specifically with the riders. They might start by looking at the following areas.

Media

There are many TV programs that the riders and the PBR can be promoted on. Two I was thinking of are 20/20 and Who Do You Think You Are? For the former, why not try to sell a story not just on bull riding, but also on stock contractors and the riders from other countries? I picture it this way:

*Ten minutes on Mesa Pate and Chad Berger
*Ten minutes on the riders
*Ten minutes on the riders from other countries (especially the Brazilians)
*Ten minutes on the PBR itself (the inception, rules, treatment of bulls, etc.)
For the latter, how interesting would it be to see one of the riders’ family trees (especially Ryan Dirteater)?

Next, I’d go to People Magazine Special Editions: “Sexiest Man Alive,” “World’s Most Eligible Bachelors,” or “50 Most Beautiful People.” There are plenty of riders in the Top 40 that People could consider.

Fashion

If Adriano Moraes is sponsored by Ariat, then why don’t he and his wife design a line of men’s and women’s cowboy boots with Adriano’s signature on it or his initials stitched into it somewhere? Many riders are sponsored by Wrangler. What about a line of Wrangler jeans or shirts with their names on it? They could also help design the clothing. Then, at the events, these riders could sign autographs next to racks of their clothing for sale. For every sale of clothing or pair of boots, the rider would get a percentage of the sale.

All of these items could include a small card with the rider’s info/websites and PBR info/websites.

Miscellaneous

Photgraphs! Some of the guys who work on ranches could have a photographer come take some gorgeous shots of them around the area, then have them sign the prints and frame them or make some into posters and calendars and then sell them at the events when they are signing.

Finally, there are the riders like Shane Procter who, with his wife Jesse’s help, make chaps and leather accessories for horses. When he’s signing autographs at a local store (and you can bet that here in Anaheim, I’d have him at the Broken Horn (http://www.brokenhornsaddlery.com/), he could have a sign up sheet to win a free accessory. Then there would be mass emails to all the participants with all of his and the PBR’s websites. Same with Josh Kochel and spurs.

Rider Images

Finally, a brief note about those images I’ve griped about over the years. A good publicist will work out an image for a rider and identify things for him to do and not do within that image. The publicist would monitor all online social media and, if one of his/her clients steps out of line, damage control would start.

Two Final Notes

The PBR in general could use a lot more advertising. I suggest this.

1. Promotions on local radio stations and local TV stations. With 40 riders in the BFTS, as well as Craig Hummer, J. W. Hart, Justin McBride, Ty Murray, and some increasingly well-known stock contractors, there are more than enough guys to do the rounds in every city.

2. More merchandise! What about yearly calendars? I don’t believe I’ve seen any in Target or Barnes and Noble. And how about any of the appropriate stores in the general areas where the events are held? There’s a sports section in Walmart and Target where they can sell sports accessories and t-shirts with riders/bulls/PBR logos on them. Where is this stuff?

Basically, what this comes down to is this: There is no reason why these guys shouldn’t be making more money. If the PBR wants a bigger audience, helping to promote the riders could be a good way to start.

If I Ran the PBR . . . .

Welcome, gentle readers, to the first in a series under the umbrella subject, “If I Ran the PBR.” I have invited several of my longtime contributors to write about this, and I expect we are going to get an earful about a very diverse group of topics.

In the past few days, as some of you no doubt already know, some very, very bad stuff has begun to emerge about practices in the PBR, but I am going to leave that alone for just a bit, till some of the smoke clears and we can get some hard facts about the situation. In the meantime, we will go on with our previously planned offerings, subject to change without notice and at my whim, naturally.

Since I am the Queen of this Stockyard, I cannot of course be outdone right out of the chute, so I staked my claim at the outset. Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you my magnum opus (thus far): If I Ran the PBR, I Would Dump the Small-town Rodeo Crap.

I hasten to say that I don’t mean I would no longer have the Touring Pro Division swanning around to small venues, or that I would not be looking for new talent on the rodeo circuit (small town or otherwise). Not all of fans are fortunate enough to be able to get to a BFTS event, so Mohammad must go to the mountain.

What I mean specifically (and I can already hear the outraged cries of the less enlightened starting to roil the air) is that I would eliminate all the artifacts that the PBR imported, willy-nilly, into its events straight from rodeo held at the Podunk County Fair. Here’s why: The PBR will never be a world-class, international sport till it starts looking more like other international sports—that is to say, sports that recognize and embrace an international audience.

First up: I would do away with the public prayer before ALL PBR events, BFTS or Touring Pro or what have you. The world is not made up of Christians only, let alone of fundamentalist, right-wing, Southern Christians, and it’s way past time that the PBR accepted this. There is no public prayer before National Football League games, or National Basketball Association games, or National Hockey League games. The PBR would be wise to follow those examples. (There is, naturally, public prayer before NASCAR races, but NASCAR can by no stretch of the imagination be considered an “international” sport. There are NO sanctioned NASCAR events outside the boundaries of the United States and, indeed, none anywhere except in the South. Case closed.)

As a matter of fact, I would ban ALL religious observances at PBR events, including the Cowboy Church and Riding High Ministries. If you folks want to proselytize, you’re free to believe that’s your calling, but if I were in charge, you’d be doing it on your own time and not on the PBR’s dime.

And while I’m on the subject: The condition of my soul is none of your damned business. Nothing to see here, move on.

Next, I would deep-six the xenophobic declarations that “We live in the greatest country in the world” and the overt militarism. I am fine with playing and/or singing the national anthem before the event starts. Everybody does that, everywhere. Hell, at NHL games between U.S. and Canadian teams, BOTH national anthems are played. Maybe we should also be playing the Brazilian, Australian, Canadian, and Mexican national anthems, just to acknowledge the contributions of participants from places other than the United States.

But I would most definitely NOT have “The Star-Spangled Banner” serving as a backdrop for film of F-18s soaring over the mountaintops, nor would I march a bunch of new recruits in and have them take their oath in front of the crowd. That kind of mawkish jingoism creates a circus-like atmosphere that demeans the seriousness of the commitment those people are making. I would put a stop to it, yesterday.

No doubt about it—we do have the biggest, most expensive military in the world, bought and paid for with a budget that is ten times larger than that of the country in second place (which happens to be Great Britain). But if we are going to take the PBR international, we would do well, as our distinguished Commander in Chief said recently, to not spike the football.

Next, I would do away with the official second-class treatment of women. On my watch, there would be no leather-clad Jack Daniels girls or Copenhagen girls (and don’t even get me started on how out of line the PBR is in endorsing the use of tobacco in any form) and no Las Vegas showgirls, not even in Las Vegas. If I were in charge of small-town rodeo, women would be competing in rough-stock events and there would be NO demeaning, girly competitions like goat tying and barrel racing. It’s time for the PBR to move into the 21st century and act like it really cares that roughly half of its fans are female.

Next, I would ban all political speech, regardless of which side it endorses. That means Justin McKee would not be making jokes about Nancy Pelosi, or anybody else, for that matter. If you want to attract an international audience, you have to recognize that some of them aren’t Tea Baggers, and it will do you no good to stand on either side of the political fence.

Finally, I would ban ALL hateful public speech, and since I am a generous sort, my definition of “hateful” would be considerably broader than most people’s. The bottom line is that nobody formally affiliated with the PBR—not board members, employees, announcers, entertainers, bull riders, bull fighters, pick-up men, roadies, or grounds crew—would ever again say anything hateful or demeaning about any group. Never on my watch would any cowboy, World Champion or not, stand up on camera and say he was embarrassed to have ridden “like a girl,” nor would there be one mean word spoken about any ethnic group, women, or gays. Anybody who broke this rule would be reprimanded and fined—painfully—on first offense. If it happened again, he would be thrown out of the PBR for life.

And when all these changes are completed, and my utopian bull-riding kingdom has arisen anew from the ashes of its ancestry, only one form of violence will be tolerated — the violent interplay between rider and bull, under the bright lights, down on the dirt, where it belongs.