As luck would have it, I drew a bronc I'd had five or six times before and the tailor made him. He'd just jump and kick in a little circle in front of the chutes: showy as hell and couldn't buck a fat man off.
Hot damn, I thought, is she gonna be impressed! Everything went according to plan: he was the kind you'd like to ride every morning before breakfast. The horse finished up bucking in a tight circle in front of the catch pen, the whistle blew, so I grabbed my rein with my free hand and looked for the pickup men.
Just another day at the office: I had to win first and I had doubtless impressed the hell out of the prettiest girl in the county. Hot damn! Meanwhile, since the horse was in a corner, still bucking his ass off in a circle, the pickup men were having a little trouble riding in and I could hear the folks in the box seats laughing. Laughing? What in hell are they laughing at? The goddam pickup men were laughing too; in fact, the whole damn place was collectively convulsed in laughter and everybody in the place was in on the joke but me.
They finally managed to get me off and I tipped my hat to the crowd: after all, I had just done a pretty good job of spurring a finals horse in the fat neck. The whole damn place laughed even harder! I headed back to the stripping chute, confused as hell. What the hell is everybody laughing at? When I reached to unbuckle my leggings, I found out.
My britches had ripped from waist band to crotch! I pulled the leg of my chaps up to cover my ass and hotfooted it back to the truck for a change of britches. The young lady I was attempting to impress couldn't stop laughing the rest of the evening and has been periodically reminding me of the incident for the more than thirty years we've been married.
I don't wear underwear.
For the longest time, every time l met someone from South Texas they'd say, "Ain't you that fellow that mooned the entire population of Edna back in sixty-five?"
