..and inside, a little part of me died that day.
Let me explain.
I took my son to see Professional Bull Riding recently.
PBR Marketing Slogan: Come for the excitement, stay to hear the words “cotton pickin'” used in actual sentences ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!?!
Regardless, after dissuading my son from wanting to buy a cowboy hat by giving him the old ‘Only two things come from Texas, son’ speech and having him look at me and then ask what a queer was and then what a steer was and then have security called to see if “Everything was okay over here because people are frightened for the boy” he decided on just buying a stuffed bull.
The bull he decided on was named, and I’m not kidding, “Chicken on a Chain.”
I was hesitant at buying this because “Chicken on a Chain” is also a game I used to play with that dominatrix in Montreal but we’re here to talk about my son’s stuffed animal and not my fetish for farm animals covered in leather and THAT’S RIGHT SAY “BOK BOK” BITCH!
Perhaps I’ve said too much.
Later that night, I’m at the stove and the stuffed bull is on the counter behind me because where else should a stuffed bull be except near the fruit bowl in the friggin kitchen.
That’s when I hear my daughter behind me say:
“Daddy! Look! I’m milking the bull!”
I don’t turn around, but say:
“Honey..you can’t milk bulls. Only cows.”
Daughter: “Then what are THESE?”
It’s at this point that I turn around and actually look at Chicken on a Chain closely for the very first time.
The stuffed bull has a dick and balls.
My daughter is pretending to milk it.
That was awesome.
Why the makers of this toy decided to go ahead and LITERALLY sew on a sack of balls on this thing I have no idea other than they are out of their cotton pickin’ minds.
My daughter is fondling stuffed bull balls and I just used “cotton pickin'” in an actual sentence.
I may just join the PBR tour now.
I hear there’s a chance of death.
That would be pretty welcome right about now.