A real body of work
I’ve presided over a riot only once in my life. It was years ago at our annual branding which would eventually turn into an all out war.
I always went out of my way to not only invite all the neighboring ranchers but to invite some town folks too who always enjoyed the proceedings, not to mention the free steak dinner. One year some friends called to ask if they could bring along an extra couple who had unexpectedly encamped at their house for an extended stay. I said, “Sure, the more the merrier.”
More untruthful words have never been uttered.
The female of the couple was really sweet and did yeoman’s work in the kitchen, whereas the male was easily the most obnoxious human I’ve ever met. First, let me explain that I wear long-sleeve shirts practically all the time now because I’ve had several skin cancers carved out of my body, including half my nose and one nasty melanoma on my back. But this branding day was particularly hot so I was stripped down to my T-shirt, thus exposing my untanned arms. I can honestly say that at one time I had good looking guns. In fact, my arms were one of the few things my wife first liked about me. In college I could snatch and jerk 100 pounds over my head with one arm fully extended. I’d be lucky to do 10 pounds these days.
The ex-dairyman took one look at my white skinny extensions and said, “You call those arms? What are you, some kind of sissy? These are arms,” he said as he rolled up his shirt sleeves exposing two giant forearms and biceps and triceps the size of bowling balls that he could make dance like Mexican jumping beans.
When I introduced the ex-dairyman to the big burly rancher I trusted to do the castrating that day, the highest honor that can be bestowed in the branding pen, the ex-dairyman shook his hand and immediately started cracking down like a pair of Vice Grips®. He squeezed until he saw tears coming out of my friend’s eyes, and keep in mind that my friend is over six feet tall and weighs 285 pounds, nearly all of it muscle.
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