Boots, n-chaps, n-cowboy hats...

I started out my journey in a small town in Eastern Oregon where the incest and sheep jokes fly like the gnats on the river. The river, that in the winter I'd ice skate on with my tennie-runners. If you wanna hear about sheep shearing, hog tying, and cow tipping.......... I must admit, I wanted to be a cowboy when I grew up but little did I know what that really entailed but I learned quickly that I wasn't game for it. Sitting on the fence, getting splinters in my butt, I watched men chase pigs that had been covered in oil, ride barebacked horses from one suitcase to another and redress themselves, and/or chase wild cows, grab their teats and squeeze a drop of milk into an empty water bottle. Was this what being a cowboy was? Fondling farm animals in public. Don't get me wrong, it was funny as all get out to watch the mayor get kicked in the head by cattle while grabbing for a tit but I just couldn't see myself...... there. I tried to adjust to the culture as best as I could. I changed color to adapt, stayed still as long as I could but it became apparent that I wasn't cut out for a small town life. I never got used to the tightness of the wranglers, the crispness of the brush poppers, nor the non aero-dynamic cowboy hats.