In the sorting alley it's easy to separate the dudes from the real cowboys. You may be a dude if…
There are sheets on your bed in the bunkhouse.
The camp cookie is a three star Michelin chef.
When you set out for the day's work you are provided a sack lunch and a wine cooler.
The
ratio of riders to cows exceeds two to one and the "trail boss" sends
you and three others to go retrieve one old wayward arthritic cow.
You
have to pay for the privilege of getting baked past well done by the
sun, bucked off, gored, or losing your finger in a dally or a squeeze
chute.
Your horse has one speed: slow. And there's a seatbelt on your saddle.
Instead of waking up the rooster, the rooster wakes you up.
You must sign a stack of waivers before working cattle absolving the owner of all responsibility in case of your death.
In
the evening you sit around a campfire and roast your wienies, burn your
marshmallows, toast your buns and sing old cowboy songs like "Happy
trails to you, until we meet again."
There's
more than one course for supper and one of the courses is pheasant
under glass; you're given a full setting of silverware to work with; and
the chef lights your dessert on fire.
The ranch where you "hired on" has a gift shop.
After a long day of riding you "get your kinks worked out" by a gorgeous Scandanavian massage-babe who doesn't speak English.
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