Police brutality...

I am so absolutely sick and tired of the police brutality videos and stories circulating around the internet. I am a large supporter of due process of the law and I firmly believe that a suspect is innocent until proven guilty and sentenced by a group of peers, but y'all are overlooking some serious common sense.

If you are caught red handed stealing, raping or abusing then you should have the shit beat out of you. I'm not backing down on this. It doesn't matter how polite you were being when caught or how quickly you laid down and put your hands behind your back. Not running may have prevented you from getting shot but being still isn't helping your case any now, you're a waste of air.

Do we really want criminals to be slapped on the hand and told they've been a bad boy/girl? Not me, no sir, I want you to whip their ass until they cry and find Jesus. A little bloodshed and public humiliation tends to yield immediate results.

Since I'm on the train now and it's steaming full speed ahead I'll dive into this as well; this is the parents fault (or lack of parents.) I was a good kid and I still knew that if I stepped out of the line I may be ripped limb from limb by my mother and I held that fear very close to me at all times. The police wouldn't have to kick your dumb ass if your daddy would've made you pick your switch you incompetent menace to society.  

I have yet to watch a police brutality video where I did not sit back and slow claps for the men in uniform while they punched the stupidity out of a second class citizen. I have not witnessed one personal account thus far where the ass clown on the ground did not deserve what he asked for. You're wrecking it for the rest of us who want to leave our kids with a babysitter, take a jog in the middle of the night or buy fuel without having to prepay. You morons deserve a beating every morning before you brush your teeth.

Respect has dwindled to such a pathetic low that people don't even know how to behave with an authority figure. The laws are easy to understand, there's no fine print. Most laws are common sense we've been aware of our entire lives. When the officer comes to your window you know what is expected of you; what's up with not rolling the window all the way down, refusing to give them information and generally trying to make their jobs difficult? They are there for YOU, you selfish son of a bitch!

If you did something wrong and it was minor you have two options; fess up to it and allow them to proceed with the process of the law or act like a fool, waste everyone's time, look like an idiot and then get into trouble anyway. If you did something majorly wrong then lay down and let them kick you in the balls a few dozen times because I know for a fact that you KNEW you were wrong when you were stealing, raping or abusing. You KNEW there were consequences and you KNEW the law may catch up with you. Quit being a sorry loser, loser.

Nobody in the land of the internet knows what they want, man up and take a stand and be consistent with your opinions. I watch videos of an abused animal and every single comment eludes to the fact that they want the humans responsible dead, beaten up, tortured horribly or some form of physical justice to be dealt. I watch a video of a thug car thief high on heroin speeding away from swarms of cops, crashing the vehicle and the cops dealing out a very appropriate form of physical justice and everyone is crying for the bastard! An animal deserves to have his abusers mutilated but a thrown away life that is causing harm and destruction to many people deserves to be treated with respect? Sorry buddy, you lost that right when you decided that breaking the law was an enjoyable free time activity.

I'm going to end this before I break out the hard core cuss words because I'm headed there. I'll just leave y'all with this and please feel free to come to my Facebook page and comment on this link if you disagree with me, you're wrong and I will spend the rest of the day defending that; if you can't spend your time productively, being a decent individual and not harming good people then you needed a whipping long before that police officer gave it to you and when he's done trying to break your face I'd be happy to shake his hand.

Bronc riders as heros...

My heros will always be bronc peelers

 

I started thinking pretty highly of bronc riders the first time I nodded for the chute gate to open. I didn't think anyone else in the world could possibly understand what I felt or feel it the same way I did. I've spent three years trying to simplify that emotion and it's something I just can't do, it's almost impossible to analyze a feeling. I want everyone to feel what it is that keeps me awake at night; every jump, every rowel stroke, every crash.

It could be fear. It's a little bit like gazing over the wheat as a norther blows in. It's a little bit helpless and a little bit empowered all at the same time. You won't know how big of a storm is going to hit until it gets there and you don't know how well you're prepared for it until the hail starts hitting your roof. Sometimes I can match my breathing with the horse I've got my saddle laid across and sometimes they're breathing too slow and deep. Sometimes the crowd is big and the only breathing I can hear is my own, often shallow and usually masked by the heartbeat that is thumping in my head. My ears get plugged by my heartbeat.

It could be acceptance. It's knowing that you might not walk out of the arena and it's knowing that you'd be honored for something so strong to take you down. It's not hard to think about what's going to happen before you step onto the chutes but it changes when the anticipation gets thick in the air. Knowing what needs to be done and trying to talk your muscles into doing it can be a challenge. Accepting fault for your buck offs and broken bones can be taxing and it can be enlightening.

It could be pride. Most broncs look like they could be re-made into a child's toy; their feathers twist and curl above their hooves, they trot with their heads carried high and their knees pulled up to their chests, their manes hang down their necks and flow towards their shoulders and they bounce like they're light as air. Their appearance evokes pride, they know they're special to us and they know they've got the upper hand. Their pride overflows and those of us who ride them get to share some of what's leftover. Every once in a while I'll make a ride and my heart will grow until I feel like it may burst from excitement.

It could be addiction. I've never felt like something belonged in my hand more than a bronc rein. When your heart is beating faster than normal all of your senses are heightened, that's a fact. I can feel each strand of that rein slide across the calluses on my fingers and the little piece of mane I tied in there blows and tickles my skin like it typically wouldn't do. I wouldn't trade this for a white sand beach or Christmas day.  

It could be camaraderie. I feel like I know a bronc buster when I see him. I want to shake his hand and I want to share stories. I want to watch every video he has and I want to see all of his pictures. I want him to know that I'm as excited for him as he was the day he rode that bad one. I feel so full of happiness every time I get a handshake offered to me, or a pat on the back, or a compliment. We're all friends even if we don't know each others names because we've all bathed in an emotion deeper than most care to know.

It could be anticipation. Time slows down. Every thought I think takes hours to play out in my head. I could write a novel in only a few real life seconds. I've written dozens of novels sitting beside a saddled bronc, one boot rested in my saddle and the other keeping me balanced above him. I've written dozens of novels I've only ever shared with a horse. I've erased dozens of novels too, I forget them when I slide into the chute. Twenty some years of blackness, nothing, blank pages waiting for ink as I catch my stirrups and tilt my hips.

It could be strength. My dance partner's head creates a whirlwind of humid air and arena dust as he twists his neck, he knows the way out. His front hooves slap the ground at the same time, his legs close together, he's strong and fast and my teeth click together although my jaw was tightly clenched. There's no other power comparable to the first jump into the arena. I didn't know I had that kind of strength; my spurs glide along his smooth hair, I can feel his twitching muscles beneath my rowels and under my calves. My thighs lock tight against the rough out of my swells, I grip so hard the inside of my legs are often bruised. Every muscle in my left arm contracts and strains, it's connected to his nose through my rein and he wants his head free from my grasp. I know he's stronger than me but maybe I can fight back for eight seconds.

For the rest of my life I'll be able to sit in the stands; maybe crippled, maybe old, but never regretful. For the rest of my life I'll have a hero in a bronc rider; always bold, always proud and never underestimating of the feeling we share.