Heart beating heavy in your ears, the unmistakable smell of fuel and burning rubber (perhaps some manure), this is the race of a lifetime. Everything has built to this moment, this quarter mile. Ya better be ready. On yer marks, get set, GIDDY UP!
It ain’t a buckin’ bronco… it’s a steel stallion! With a hydraulic kick and a mean setta horns, this sucker is low, loud, and liable to send your hat flyin’.
When you’re lost in the Galactic West, ridin’ a horse named Jupiter in the asteroid belt, a laserproof sidekick is all you need to stay on the straight and narrow. Fair warning.
Look, ‘possums might not win any beauty pageants, but they’ve got one helluva survival instinct—kinda like your uncle who somehow keeps getting free refills in that same styrofoam cup at the corner store.
It ain’t majestic, it ain’t graceful, and it definitely ain’t for good eatin’—but you can’t look at one without crackin’ a grin. Just a lil’ round fella standin’ around, judgin’ the world, and lookin’ mildly concerned about everything.
The Stranger, Bill Munny, Joe, Blondie, Rowdy Yates. None of those cowboys ever cried, don’t care what you’ve seen. They just got something in their eye!
A skull grins beneath an ‘ol Stetson brim, Flames lick his helmet blue, defying death's whim, With hollow eyes he stares, a cowboy to the bone, Ridin' through eternity.
Sometimes you plan it, but most nights it just sneaks up on ya. Next thing you know, you’re sitting at a Waffle House at 3am drinkin’ cheap black coffee wonderin’ where the night went. Our best guess? You got a little rowdy, amigo.
