Stampede in the City

Oh gawd. It’s Stampede time.

Calgarians can be torn on Stampede. The haters really hate it. The crowds, the drunkenness, having to pick up the slack from a co-worker who takes off for a tent at 10:30 a.m. and returns at 3:30 p.m. the next day. The lovers really love it. The crowds, the drunkenness, knowing a co-worker will pick up the slack when you take off for a tent at 10:30 a.m. and return at 3:30 p.m. the next day with the simple excuse of: Dude. I was networking.

I’m somewhat in the middle, leaning towards the take any excuse to get out of town during it side. I have some friends who love Stampede and do it all: rides, food, rodeo and tent parties. When a night goes along perfectly without too much effort on my part, hey, I’m game. Plus, I sure like to boogie and there is always dancing during Stampede. But for the most part Stampede is pretty much just line-ups and cover charges. Then there are the super cheesy dudes in black button down shirts and black hats who think they are some sort of ninja cowboy, confident they can divest you of anything they choose, whether it be your wedding ring, sexual orientation or underwear. Oh, and Stampede also means lots and lots of breasts. Super tanned breasts*. All over the place.

And before you think I’m passing over the non-party aspects of the Stampede like the family friendly stuff – agriculture, rodeo, chucks and Super Dogs – I would wager that 90% of people over 18 who have “been to Stampede” didn’t even see a horse.

But what I really dislike about Stampede is the window painting. Every window downtown has some sort of terrible interpretation of cowboy life caricatured on it. I would love to know the ratio of Calgarian window painters to any other city in the world.

I took a little snapshot of one of worst ones I’ve seen. At first glance, it’s pretty simple. Some get a full landscape storyboard, but this one is just a lone cowgirl and cowboy.

But wait, what is wrong with their feet? Especially his. Looks painful. He should probably get that checked out.

And what is with her tiny hands? And that tiny hat? Now, I have a pretty large noggin, so I take offence at the cultural pressures that women must wear small hats in order to be perceived as ladylike. It’s obvious if she squished that on her substantial melon she would be quite uncomfortable.

Now, I know that some men go grey in their facial hair first. But really? A fully white moustache with sandy brown hair? Somebody get this cowpoke some Just For Men.

And I’m sorry – what is his tiny hand doing? I think he’s trying to go for the casual thumb looped in the belt hook, but he’s not quite pulling it off. And even worse, he’s making the dog watch.

Speaking of crotches*, what does it say that her, umm, belt buckle, is larger than his? You go, girl.

And finally, during a time of improbable breasts sprouting up all over the city, I think these are the most improbable of all.

They say porn* is changing the way young lads think the female form should be? Well, what impression do you think this is going to have on the four-year old who comes downtown to watch the parade. When the 17th marching band goes by he’ll start glancing around and catch sight of this. For the rest of his life he’ll look for the elusive woman who has breasts that suck regular ill-fitting shirts up into the most perfect display of upside-down cleavage and top-side cleavage that starts at her collarbone. And let me tell you. He probably won’t find her.

That’s all. End rant. Enjoy Stampede. Try the mini donuts.

*I wonder if I just threw down the ultimate google search terms to get people to my blog? I’ll let you know.