There’s nothing that spells out AMERICAN in big, blinding, red, white and blue letters like a trusty mechanical bull. Yessiree, Bob—Americans, especially the steer-belt-buckle-wearing kind, love riding machines, whether it’s hogs, trucks or wooly bullies. Speaking of trucks, and you just can’t have a good ol’ country song without one, this here’s a tailgatin’ party, and even though it’s inside a club and there won’t be any real trucks parked on the premises, there’ll definitely be some real tail. And nothing spells AMERICAN, besides mechanical bulls, like some tail drunk on beer and barbecue. Once that tail’s all loaded up, scoot it out onto the dance floor for some electric slidin’, tush-pushin’, and rolling back the rugin’, if you can still shake it. You’re sure to be surrounded by a bunch of like-minded white, patriotic heterosexuals, too, because nothing spells AMERICAN, besides mechanical bulls and drunk tail, like white hets in big fuckin’ hats. Shit yeah.
Wed., Jan. 8, 7 p.m., 2014
