So you may or may not have heard of the Calgary Stampede. Also, you may or may not care. I for one do not. I don’t like 99.99999% of Country Music and I don’t fancy cowboy culture, attire, mannerisms, or anything else associated with cowpoke folk and local yokels smoking yolk over oak and soaking coke to invoke and evoke some bloke who jokes baroque and provokes a choke so stoked it tokes with a moke.
Dig?
Apologies to most of the other people who live but were not born in Calgary, this is what the “Stampede” looks like to me.
And this:
And this:
Artery clogging AND phallic!
And wasn’t there a movie about gay cowboys?
Anyway, I do not relish (that’s a fast food joke) the thought of being around in this city for the 10 days of the year when everyone not born here pretends to be a cowboy or a cowgirl. And all the rough-hewn rustic wood making signs to sell soda and junk food, and all the bales of hay brought in to decorate parking lots, and all the country music piped everywhere things are sold just make me sad.
So, I resist. Ha!
I’m mikeifying some Ozzy (again) right now and I’m mindlessly random-paging through Wikipedia looking for historical topics to read. And soon I will update FembotWiki. And then my short weekend is done. Sigh.
At least I have another week of fat, stupid, tackily dressed tourists in my way to look forward to.
Sigh.