Popingay

Bonjour Bitches: The gayest cowboy since Brokeback Mountain

Being born and raised in a city whose main source of pride is the annual largest rodeo in the world, you can say that being a cowboy is in my blood. If by being a cowboy you mean putting on a pink cowboy hat, getting wasted, and making out with guys. I am determined to bring more gay to cowboys than the release of Brokeback Mountain.

Which is why, when our Montreal school-sanctioned activity for the evening promised a trip to Rodeo Rock’n’Bull, I felt compelled to go there and defend my cowboy honour. Only hours before I had another one of my, I suppose you could say, “episodes”. Thankfully I wouldn’t be alone in defending my redneck roots as the all-fabulous Kaitlin in my program hailed from Northern Alberta, and was further into redneck territory than I could ever go. She’s the Patsy Montana to my Dolly Parton (or whatever the hell analogy fits in here—I assume since country music doesn’t qualify as legitimate music, my thirty-second Google search was enough).

What we would find out is that a Quebecois rodeo was kind of like the Epcotting of our Western roots in that it’s a close approximation that was completely hilarious to us. (If you want a similar experience, visit your country’s pavilion in Disney World; seriously, you won’t stop laughing).

If you wanted, you could proudly take a photo of you riding a cow. On a saddle. Like a horse. Because apparently there was a shortage of horses, and cows were the next best thing. And the food proudly featured Quebec staples of beaver tails and poutine, which had as much relevance to country-western cuisine as fois gras.

I was, however, really excited to show off my near-mastery of the Cadillac Ranch line dance that was driven into my brain in childhood gym classes, only to find that the open and exhibition line-dance areas were actually people doing the Electric Slide to Ricky Martin. I don’t even have a witty comment on that, I’m just as confused as you are.

Perhaps the highlight of the night, though, had everything to do with the prominent, centrally-located mechanical bull that was open for riding and gave me the chance to satisfy my every Coyote Ugly dream (that’s a country-esque reference, right? Wow I’m bad at this). Because this got to happen:

 Making the world’s worst o-face, and, for the first time, not riding a penis.

I’d like to believe I successfully defended my cowboy heritage by not being thrown off a bucking mechanical bull immediately, and I lasted long enough to go up a couple levels of crotch-smashing delight.

But at the end of the day, my inability to string together even the most basic of country-western jokes proves that I am much better suited to riding cowboys than being one.

My stomach fought The Stampede and The Stampede won. By a lot.

If there’s one tradition that goes hand-in-hand with The Calgary Stampede other than jeans, country-wear, and (horrific) country music, it would be running around the festival participating in its annual food challenge. Although unofficial and entirely named by me, many people are party to this yearly gustatory competition wherein people run around the midway devouring every insane, disgusting (on paper) food item that a screaming carnie can sell you. The challenge is to devour everything humanely possible while trying to keep from vomiting or being reduced to a quivering pile of jelly. Usually my iron-clad stomach serves me well in this regard, but this year I’m afraid it has failed me.

Tuesday night I wandered around the fair grounds and attempted to devour a corn-dog, two bags of mini doughnuts, several Diet Cokes, a super-dense flash-frozen cup of ice cream, a slice of pizza, and a deep-fried Twix bar. Before you shake your nutritionally-balanced heads at me and my attempt to swallow what probably is the cumulative caloric intake of an entire poverty-stricken third-world village for a year, you have to know that I defend my choices entirely behind tradition. And like all other redneck-borne traditions of The Stampede, this was an idea perhaps best not engaged with.

The end result was no surprise. When I woke up for work this morning, I was stricken with a paroxysm of stomach cramps. I was torn between the desperate need for my bathroom and the desire to stay huddled in bed clutching my stomach like a pregnant woman protecting her fetus—though in this case it was a food baby. The need for a bathroom won over and there I stayed for nearly an hour.

When work called at 9:30 (well after I was supposed to show up) I called back immediately, having regained enough of my faculties to crawl back to my room and fetch my cell. I talked with my boss and assured her that Stampede food had reduced me to a useless pile of goo, and she laughed and told me that most of that food shouldn’t be eaten. I also think that I made mention of knowing how she (and all other ladies) feel like several times a year. In my delusional mind that was funny, and if I could attempt a joke I obviously wasn’t in the throes of death. I’m sure she wasn’t thrilled with my calling in sick (something I’ve only done a handful of times in my life), but I was pretty well useless. Don’t think I don’t understand it to be a situation entirely of my own making, but that hardly helps things at this point.

At any rate, my day was spent doing the following: Nap. Bathroom. Whine. Repeat.

I don’t think I left the 15 metre radius between my room and the bathroom. Finally after downing enough Pepto Bismol to kill a small child, I was able to venture out of my room for a brief time after about 6, but I spent a majority of my day cooped up recovering. I did manage to get some food in which included ice cream for reasons only my odd cravings could explain, but my stomach’s on the road to recovery and I should be fine by tomorrow provided continued gentleness on my system.

It seems reasonable justice, though, since on Monday I introduced my new Boy-Of-Interest (let’s call him J.—an adorable, sweet boy with whom I am quite taken) to Indian food for the first time in his life and then felt increasingly awful as he spent the entire night puking, and then feeling sick thereafter. I felt so guilty, but due to my own stupidity I’m now joining J. in the wonders of digestive system failure. It’s only fair. Yet somehow his being sick makes him even cuter. I’m just a hot mess. Minus the hot.