Prime_Time_spring_2019

REFLECT IONS AND RECOLLECT IONS

Paul Marchant | Rancher/Columnist | idahomarchant@gmail.com Irons in the Fire

Immoral Addictions A fter having lived his entire life (up to that point) in the arid, rural West, my oldest son spent a couple

worse to the horrified bystanders than it really was because I was sending my son used product. Usually, by the time I sent it to him, it was well worn, and the urban natives soon discovered that when he re- ceived a package from home, the seeming- ly innocent country boy would be useless for an hour or two while he drooled and talked in gibberish they couldn’t under- stand as he fawned over the pages of what they came to know as – gasp – Marchant’s cow porn! Yes, I admit it. After I gawked and lusted in my heart after the sinfully beautiful creatures in the sale catalog for the 14th Annual Too Hot to Handle Fall Female Ex- travaganza, I’d slip the perverse periodical into a discreet manila envelope and ship it via the U.S. Postal Service to my son in northern Virginia to cultivate the inescap- able multigenerational cycle. (I think the postal workers probably sneak a peak quite often. Do you think Newman, of Seinfeld fame, would even think twice about it?) As far as I know, I never violated any inter- state commerce laws. It got worse around January when the catalogs for the many and varied breed sales that revolve around the National Western Stock Show would arrive. The nice, glossy ones of the high-dollar out- fits are the best. The cattle are always set up, fit and pictured so perfectly. I know, I know. Various PETA types and activists, and some clergy and therapists will try to tell you that it’s blatant exploitation of cattle and that such attractiveness is only superficial. Besides, they say, cattle like that don’t exist in the real world. There may be some merit to that argument, I suppose, but boy howdy, they sure are easy on the eyes. The good-looking ones are probably pretty 

of years in the Wash- ington, D.C., area. He was quite an anomaly in

the cities of the East Coast. While some of his roommates and acquaintances were not completely unfamiliar with the West, none of them could quite understand his addiction. It wasn’t completely his fault. I suppose it was partly a product of the environment to which he was constantly exposed as a lad and partly due to his genetic makeup. You see, his father suffers from the same addic- tion. And, I must admit that I have never really tried to hide it or to overcome the ailment, and I have shamelessly subjected my family members to this scourge. I’ve never even considered entering a 12-step program because I would never admit that I had a problem. It took people who lived clear across the country and to whom our ways and lifestyle were completely foreign to recognize and identify the addiction. I suppose the roommates figured it was completely harmless at first – the contents of the packages sent to my son from home. What exotic literature or paraphernalia could possibly come from Oakley, Idaho? I’m sure they never dreamed his parents would purposely send him something that would be potentially destructive to his psyche and his emotional health. But, thanks to the Freudian brilliance of those young, astute psychoanalysts, the dreadful addiction now has a name, if not a cure! It started in the fall, let up a little dur- ing the winter months, but really became a problem in the spring, when bull sale sea- son was in high gear. It probably seemed

Akaushi Prime Time • Spring 2019

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