Thursday, December 3, 2009

Hot Pink Tease

Mom: Billie, what do you want to be when you grow up honey-bunch? A fireman? An Astronaut? OOooh, maybe a doctor, then you could save lives!

Billie: Hmm... I want to digsuise myself as Mikey mouse in drag and taunt bulls for a living.

Little Billie clearly has issues. As do all bull fighters in my opinion.

What kind of a man chooses this as his profession? Let's first examine what is involved:

Rule 1: Utterly Ridiculous Attire

According to what I've seen on french TV, there's no way they're letting you into that arena without a pair of florescent pink socks, ballet-slippers and an ornate blue & gold suit that shows too much of your crack and whose jacket is an obligatory 3 sizes too small. Stray from the dress code and nary a bull shall you tease.

When compared to the rest of their flamboyant warrior wardrobe, the mini-Mikey ears hat is not entirely worthy of mention... but I'm going to make fun of it anyway. Apparently the look would not be complete without a hat which has no other ascertainable purpose but to serve as yet another point of ridicule. If Joe Bullfighter had the least bit of sense in his noggin, he'd be wearing a football helmet, am I right??

One last observation... why the giant, over-sized, look-at-my-enormous-schlong padding on the side of your pant leg? If you're confident enough to not protect your HEAD, then why protect your nether regions? Perhaps this is an insight into the true mentality of these Latin-cultured performers.

Let's move on...

Rule 2: Effeminate Stance and/or Expression

Having watched a full forty-five minutes of this sport with the serious objective of studying the art of bullfighting, I suspect that to be a professional bull-teaser you must hone to perfection your arrogant-but-surprised face and be able to gracefully prance with the best of 'em.

These men do not just walk up to their opponents. Nay. They strut. These men are no shrinking violets. Never. They make fish faces at the heaving beast while waving a giant red banner in its face.

If I were the bull, I too would try my damnedest to jam my horns as far up your ass as possible.

Rule 3: Piss it the F*ck off and pray your cock padding does the job.

Let's call a spade a spade. Bull-provokers are not in the ring to play cat & mouse, they're objective is to annoy the f*ck out of the pitiable 300lbs of muscle and horns until it's foaming at the mouth, circling them in a blood-thirsty dance of pure hatred.

Then, when their prey is furious enough, they stab it in the neck with two piñata-like prongs leaving it to bleed all over itself in font of a crowd of thousands. All that keeps it from charging is a determined index finger pointed at them that says "Beef, it's what's for dinner". Bring the kids, it's fun for the whole family!

Mothers... don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys. Or bullfighters I say; unless your child enjoys florescent clothing and has a strong desire to suffer a painful humiliating death in front of a crowd of entertained on-lookers.

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