I went to the (Denver) Western Stock Show and screwed around with two Wyoming cowgirls I met. When I woke up, their cattle brand was etched on my left ass cheek and they left a note that read, "Find us when you come to WYO." I had a so much fun with them. Any chance you know how I can match a brand to a farm to find the ladies?
— Urban farming
My inner city slicker is telling you to kick rocks.
I have no idea, man. The Stock Show is raging until Jan. 22, so get your stamped ass to the National Western Complex and flash your flair to hardened cowboys. After hot-coal branding you for wearing assless chaps, maybe they'll offer ideas.
Or you could scour the joint for the cowgirls.
I can't help. I tour the family farm in flip-flops. I get chased by chickens and tangled in packs of kittens. (Fun for you. I'm allergic.) I stand in Mr. Ed's blind spot. I try to pet the bull. I snort Benadryl after bouts of livestock-induced asthma. I once agreed to ride a cow after milking her. (The barnfolk had a hefty laugh at that one.)
I may have a sizeable amount of family in the farming industry, but I'm simply a cosmopolite crop-duster. An urbanite, if you will. A jerkoff who wears open-toed shoes on a farm.
Maybe there's some sort of registry with the state. I'll leave this between your assless chaps and Google. Keep us apprised.
But don't. Because I don't care.
Off with you now.
My best friend is very shy with girls, and he asked me to feel his bulge and tell him how the size of his magic marker is. It was pretty big. And now I want a piece of it, but I'm not really attracted to him. I just want him to draw me a giant O. Catch my drift?
— Trouser Wowza
I just got a large whiff of horse shit, so either Greeley is carelessly whispering "snow," or I caught your drift.
Along the voodoo/hoodoo lines, my Magic 8-Ball (pint glass of wine I throw Scrabble pieces in), will map out how this could go down:
His life will be reduced to rubble: He's in love with you, cemented by consummation. You become the object of his affection while he watches you siphon ink out of other industrial-strength markers.
He dives into a deep ditch of depression and desire, requiring at least one solid year of therapy because he can't have you.
It is decidedly so: You're a dick.
His marker will forever spit confidence: After taking that magic marker for a test ride, your "giant O" jacks his ego with confidence. That solid endorsement will be boldly passed along to other riders in line.
Outlook good: Ego explosion. A-plus work.
You bitches get hitched: The poking blows magic all over the endorphins. You both to fall in love, get hitched, poop out a kid and get divorced five years later. Start dipping in other wells.
Reply hazy, try again later: Everybody needs a starter spouse.
You never see him again: Things spin awkward, and you never speak to each other again. He'll burn your collection of Anthony Weiner bulge prints you left at his house. Now you have blue balls until you secure backups.
My Magic 8-Ball just spelled out F-A-R-T.
For what it's worth.
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