The Legend Of The Rhinestone Cowboy

I know in multiple instances on this blog I have told tales that included a legendary figure known as The Rhinestone Cowboy. This is a man who has had an illustrious career in higher education thus far, and is someone who Bear Grylls would ultimately tip his cap to. We have had our golden ages together as college recruiters, however things have changed considerably over the years since the distinguished Rhinestone Cowboy became my friend.

Because when I first met the guy, he sure was a prick.

For full effect, download “Coyotes”, by Don Edward, and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post. You can even howl along with the man on the chorus if you want, I won’t judge.

Kids, when I first rubbed shoulders with the legend from Texas, we shared a Small Group Communication class taught by a decrepit creature who once bawled his eyes out while watching an episode of “The Office”. The ancient teabag known as Wayne Shamo.

For the record, I may or may not have donned a Mohawk for a good five weeks that semester, mainly because I thought the shock value alone would impress women around campus to date me. However, due to the fact that it’s been nearly seven years since Shamo’s class, and that I am still as single as Stinson, I must say that hairstyle didn’t do wonders for me like I imagined.

At the time of Shamo’s excuse of higher education, the Cowboy and I sat a little over 15 feet from one another. We never talked, never joked, never recounted the weekend’s college football scores. The only thing I knew about the Rhinestone Cowboy was that he had a stare of death. Like a fat woman on a Jenny Craig diet burning a hole through the skin of the waiter that just took away her dessert menu. He had a look that would make Simon Cowell wet his pants. And I had to see it every single day.  

For a long period of my young college career, I was actually scared of making eye contact with him, fearing that his maleficent staredown would make me want to force myself into a seizure into oncoming freeway traffic. It was that intimidating.  Here he was, a stereotypical jock clothed in Texas Longhorn gear from the hat on his head, to his embroidered thong underneath, staring a Mohawk wearing seizure-boy down like I was the scum of the earth.

Yeah, our relationship got off to a rocky start.

Cue intramural sports at Dixie State College over the next few semesters, where I was then forced to endure a series of beat downs by Team Texas, which was a group of typecast douchebags that used to recruit former college athletes to play with them, just so they could win a free shirt that displayed the word “Champions”.  Every touchdown they would score, every three-pointer they would make, every win they would tally, all of their athletic triumphs they would rub in the faces of the minions they stomped over. And you know who was their captain? The notorious Rhinestone Cowboy himself.

For a long period of my life I hated this creature that had good looks, rippling pecs, athletic talent, Hell, for all I know he probably pissed greatness for breakfast. On the surface I labeled him as a pompous fool that had no social skills whatsoever and was more vain than the entire Kardashian family combined.

But then I had an actual conversation with the man, and our lives have changed ever since.

Guys, have I ever told you about the real Rhinestone Cowboy? A man who has the ability to stroll into the hood of Las Vegas and make gangsta thugs fall in L-word with getting a college education. A man that can track, shoot, gut, and mount a buck all without breaking a sweat. A man who once finished an Ironman triathlon at a semi-pro pace. A man who loves his family more than he loves his own life, and dedicates every minute to being the best husband and father around? Have I told you about this colossal character who is the epitome of awesome?

Yeah, that’s the real Rhinestone Cowboy, and I will always thank the man upstairs for giving me the privilege of calling him my friend.