Mechanical Bull and Chris Douglass

No, it doesn't. Why? Because you're sober. And most sober individuals would look at a machine designed to throw you across a room as quickly and violently as possible and say "I'm not going to sit on that." Had I been a sober individual when I entered the bar on Friday night, that's what I would have said.

I wasn't a sober individual.

I wanted to say "I'm not going to sit on that" but Tequila spoke for me. He said "Look! They've got a mechanical bull!" Within minutes Tequila had forged my signature onto an insurance waiver and carried me into the saddle. Luckily, I managed to have some say in the matter. I was at least able to convince Tequila (let's call him Jose from now on) to let me put on a glove so I didn't turn my hand into hamburger.

I was told I did fairly well on my first ride. I'm sure it was due to my well honed technique. Here it is in a nutshell:

Hang on tight with your right hand.

Wave your left hand around like a cowboy (because that's what they do on TV. It seems to help.)

Continue hanging on as the mechanical bull operator does his best to:

a. make you look like an idiot

b. ensure you never have children

c. make you look like an idiot

Of course I eventually fell off, and, after a puffy chested walk through a crowd of adoring fans, found my good buddy Jose. This was a mistake.

After a few more visits to the bottom of a shot glass Jose had me back on the bull. I knew I was sore from the last ride, but I'm not sure how, since I couldn't feel my upper legs. This being the case I also knew another ride would only make my legs hurt more. That didn't matter. Jose insisted I could smash the mechanical bull world record and I believed him! Glove? I don't need no stinking glove! Start her up!

She started.

I didn't.

Whereas the first time around I actually had the sensation of riding the bull - a sense of control - this time I was simply hanging on for dear life. I clung to the rope, dug in and proceeded to have my ass handed to me by a make believe bull in front of hundreds of strangers. I didn't feel like a cowboy anymore.

I managed to stay vertical for about seven seconds. Seven seconds of flailing and pulverizing every muscle from my waist down. Then I spent at least three seconds horizontal. I had basically been thrown from the bull, but my hand didn't know that. It held steady where it was and the rest of my body stayed close by. Finally the ground found me and we agreed to stick together for a while.

Upon examination of my hand I realized why the gloves would have been a good idea. I now have two knuckles sans skin who are none to happy with me. Further inspection revealed serious damage to my lower extremities. Severe rug burn to the inside of my knees, groin muscles that felt like they were either on fire or about to snap and very tender thighs that said "we're going to be purple tomorrow". Not to mention the bruised ego. That really hurt.

I'm pretty sure I had lots of fun the rest of the night. The next morning was another story. Now I see why cowboys walk the way they do.