Riding the mechanical bull at the liquor store
Posted by bobkerolls on Monday, February 22, 2010
By 11 PM we had divested ourselves of the clucking nightmare that is thirty drunk Worcester girls. Sent back to their party bus by impatient bouncers explaining that their drunk was too drunk, we could still hear their shrill, accented curses echoing off the walls of the Alley.
The brief but cold wait in line helped reset overclocked nerves, and I was soon ordering a Stella in the Liquor Store's airlock lobby, an artificial and necessary calm before the storm. A Stella because the Liquor Store is apparently one of about three bars that do not serve Sam Adams, and the $6 charge did not improve the flavor.
All accounts were settled in the next room though, a boiling kettle of Boston's college young and socially-aggressive trash, heaving themselves onto the dance platforms, the predatory males, and of course, the mechanical bull.
The bull itself is more artistically complete than many of its brethren. Forget the truncated geometry of the usual apparatus, this was a recreation of the Beast.
Horns, hide, and placid bovine eyes enticed attention-hungry ladies and the occasional Überman from the crowd to test their usually ample centers of gravity against the pneumatic Judge.
And lo, none were worthy this night, as the bull left macho men wanting, and knocked some delicious nonsense into waves of improperly-attired girls (improperly-attired for the riding of cattle, at least).
Despite the damage being done to the stalled Women's Movement, their is some joy to be found in this spectacle besides the chance of viewing a fleeting boob or disappearing G-string.
The bull, through its human masters, decides how long your moment of fame is going to last. Some skill, a little luck, and an enormous ass will help in this arena as in all others, but ultimately your time is over, and barring a truly spectacular face-assisted landing, you are soon forgotten.
Well know this, my lovelies. I might not remember any of you, but I will forget none of you. One day that Bull will come for me, and I will join you in the legion of the unworthy, remembering our dance with Judgement, wondering what if - what if at that fateful moment we had leaned left instead of right.
The brief but cold wait in line helped reset overclocked nerves, and I was soon ordering a Stella in the Liquor Store's airlock lobby, an artificial and necessary calm before the storm. A Stella because the Liquor Store is apparently one of about three bars that do not serve Sam Adams, and the $6 charge did not improve the flavor.
All accounts were settled in the next room though, a boiling kettle of Boston's college young and socially-aggressive trash, heaving themselves onto the dance platforms, the predatory males, and of course, the mechanical bull.
The bull itself is more artistically complete than many of its brethren. Forget the truncated geometry of the usual apparatus, this was a recreation of the Beast.
Horns, hide, and placid bovine eyes enticed attention-hungry ladies and the occasional Überman from the crowd to test their usually ample centers of gravity against the pneumatic Judge.
And lo, none were worthy this night, as the bull left macho men wanting, and knocked some delicious nonsense into waves of improperly-attired girls (improperly-attired for the riding of cattle, at least).
Despite the damage being done to the stalled Women's Movement, their is some joy to be found in this spectacle besides the chance of viewing a fleeting boob or disappearing G-string.
The bull, through its human masters, decides how long your moment of fame is going to last. Some skill, a little luck, and an enormous ass will help in this arena as in all others, but ultimately your time is over, and barring a truly spectacular face-assisted landing, you are soon forgotten.
Well know this, my lovelies. I might not remember any of you, but I will forget none of you. One day that Bull will come for me, and I will join you in the legion of the unworthy, remembering our dance with Judgement, wondering what if - what if at that fateful moment we had leaned left instead of right.
Tags: down to the river to pray free donkey poster
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